


Pan-Pacific Design Competition

by Sonora



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: (somehow this got angsty), Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family Feels, Family Secrets, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonora/pseuds/Sonora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen competitors fight it out in the fashion world's ultimate reality TV showdown.</p><p>The Pacific Rim Project Runway AU where Sasha Kaidanovsky is the super model host, Stacker Pentecost is the famous designer judge, the Gage twins are the incredibly supportive mentors, Chuck is still a cranky little koala, and everyone but Raleigh is gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Has anyone else seen Season 9 of Project Runway? Ugh, I love it. And if you think about it...
> 
> Bert = Herc  
> Joshua = Chuck  
> Anya = Mako
> 
> ... I mean, how could I not? And I need some happy right now, so yay!

“If you meet anybody cute bro, let me know, yeah?”

“You’re gross.”

“I’m gross? Vaginas are gross. Don’t know how you deal with that shit.”

Raleigh chuckles despite himself, tossing a pillow at his brother mindlessly as he considers the contents of his suitcase. “Dude, shut up.”

“Can’t think of a comeback that’s not wildly inappropriate, can we?”

“Yance...”

“Don’t knock it til you try it, maybe? That’s pretty clean, all your style.”

“Yeah, but you’ve slept with girls, haven’t you?”

Yancy grins - because yes, yes he has and they both know it. “What, I can’t give my little brother some crap before he become a famous fashion designer?”

Raleigh’s hand goes to his sketch book, sitting on top of his neatly folded clothes in one of Yancy’s canvas camo deployment bags. An old, worn sketchbook and nice clean new clothes. It stretched his meager savings nearly to the breaking point to fill this damn thing up, but like Yancy told him, if he’s going to be on TV, he needs to be presentable. He needs to look like a guy who cares about his appearance. 

Truth be told, he prefers his worn out sweaters and comfy jeans, but Stacker Pentecost is brutal on designers who won’t wear their own looks, or don’t dress like they design. Raleigh doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if he showed up in his usual Alaska gear.

His looks had shipped out a few days ago, some grumpy gofer from the network showing up to pack it up with hardly a word to him. He’s not sure how that’s all going to go. Anchorage isn’t exactly into high fashion; he does decent with his outerwear, but materials are limited and budgets are tight and the only evening dress he’s ever designed was Jaz’s prom dress this year. 

(The evening dress challenge is definitely going to bite him in the ass. But at least he won’t have to shop at Jo-Ann’s. Raleigh blames the problems he had with that damn thing on polyester. At least Jaz liked it. Fuck hand beading; he is never doing that shit again.)

“I’ll be happy with some name exposure,” Raleigh says and flips the top shut on his bag. No time to change his mind on its contents. They’re running dangerously tight on time as it is. His flight’s in two hours. “Really, if I can get that...”

Yancy lays an arm around his shoulders. “Bro, you are gonna kick some city slicker ass on this goddamn show, win that hundred and fifty grand or whatever, and finally be able to pay me back.”

“For what?” Raleigh demands.

“You do eat all my food,” Yancy replies, that shit-eating grin still on his face. 

It’s funny, except it’s not. Yancy’s fought damn hard over the years to stay at Elmendorf AFB here in Anchorage while Jaz finishes out high school and Raleigh tries to get his life back together. Fashion design probably wasn’t the best career choice for somebody in his situation - the Becket family definitely has no back-up plans and no safety net right now - but he can’t give up on it. Least, that’s what Yancy keeps saying. _My flight pay covers rent and food, Rals. Fuck apprenticing on a boat. Do what you love._

Jaz graduates this year though, and Yancy’s on the PCS list for August, so the family’s going to break up in the next six months or so. Seems like a good time to stretch himself, Raleigh figures. He’s been trying to save to move to Los Angeles on his own this summer, but money’s tight. Any connections he can make, he needs to make.

Of course, there’s always the possibility that Raleigh’s going to make a complete ass out of himself by appearing on a reality show, ruin any chance he’s got for starting a career, but that’s a chance he has to take.

He has to do this. Or he really is probably going to have to switch to crab fishing or some bullshit like that.

“Ready to go?” Yancy asks.

Hugged Jaz goodbye before she left for school. Packed his sketchbooks. Downloaded a copy of _The Shatterdome_ , Stacker’s memoir about launching his brand from a leaky warehouse in Chiba City and his struggles to break into the Pacific Rim fashion world. Verified with Yancy that nobody’s going to mock his underwear choices. 

“Yeah,” Raleigh says. “I’m good.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chuck catches that Korean girl eyeing Max, and makes a little show of readjusting his dog’s little outfit. Sure, it might be kind of gay to dress his dog up, but how else is he supposed to deal with that hideous yellow thing the poor little man has to wear? And anyway, if anybody thinks they’re going to fuck with his Max, they’ve got another thing coming.  

Thirty-two designers.  There are thirty-two of them here.  Double the cast for the start of the show.  Nobody mentioned that this was going to be a interview for a slot on the show, which is fucking bullshit.  He worked his ass off to get here, gave up what little life he had left in Oz to follow his dream here in the US, spent months living off nothing but eggs and ramen, working three jobs just to keep his head above water, and now, now is supposed to be his chance to fucking _get_ somewhere.

It’s bullshit.

Plain and simple; bullshit.

Max lays his wrinkled face on Chuck’s leg and he strokes the bulldog’s head absently as one of the producers goes over the rules of engagement for this thing (a “final casting”, not an interview, despite the fact that is clearly what this is).  They’re all to show their three looks to the judges, describe themselves and their design sense and their aspirations, what they hope to accomplish.

And of course, the first bloke to get called up is a blond American boy - “I’m from Anchorage, Alaska, Marshall” - who’s wearing an atrocious shabby-chic gray handknit sweater and clunky pair of jeans, and what’s up with the three or four belts he’s got slung around his hips?  For his sake, there better be a decent body under those rags.  Looking like that is no way to get dick.

(At least he’s a natural blond, judging from his roots. Chuck’s not exactly into that sort of thing - he likes his men with some gray around their temples - but it probably works for somebody. If there are any other gay guys in Alaska. Maybe it’s all gay guys, like on that crab fishing show everybody seems to fucking love so much. All that time out at sea...)

“Is that leather?” 

Fuck, it is. Leather hasn’t been cool since the Eighties, but there it is. On the PPDC runway. Fucking shameful. 

“Yeah bro, looks like leather. Deerskin?”

“Caribou, actually, Bruce. Local and sustainable.”

“Well there’s an angle I’ve never considered.”

The Gages are having a laugh over it. Good for them. And sure, okay, it’s not a hideous piece, that leather dress, with an umbre effect brightening up the charcoal gray dye job and the skirt hem cut at an interesting angle. The topstitching is impeccable. It’s clearly not cut for a model though, and Chuck can’t help but wonder what the hell this Raleigh bloke was thinking. If that’s an actual commissioned piece...

“You’re skirting awful close to our animal cruelty regulations,” Stacker Pentecost says from the center of the judging table, and the tittering from the Gage brothers falls silent. He doesn’t even raise his voice, but the fact that he’s spoken is enough to shut everyone else up. He pauses to adjust his tie, smooth down his signature waistcoat, and levels a (disapproving, Chuck hopes) finger at the leather dress. “Are you concerned about that, showing us this piece?”

“Marshall, sir, we live close to nature and...”

“Don’t call me sir, Mister Becket. I’m not a bloody drill sergeant.”

“Yes, uh, Marshall. This is Alaska. I believe in designing for my environment, from my environment.”

“Do the ladies in Anchorage not like a little high fashion?” Sasha Kaidanovsky asks from Stacker’s elbow, resplendent in icy blue silk, her platinum hair twisted into a knot at the base of her slender neck. She looks every inch the international supermodel that she is, but Chuck can’t help but wonder at how long it took hair and make-up to get that done up to her liking; she’s got a reputation for being a right terror pre-shoot. “Even in frozen north, we like design.”

“If nobody can or will buy my pieces, I’m not much good as a designer, am I?” Raleigh replies.

“Fashion is about fantasy, Mister Becket, about letting people dream of a better version of themselves. Are you going to be able to handle that?”

“Looking forward to it, Marshall.”

They let him show his other two pieces, a highly tailored men’s coat and a blue-gray women’s suit. That looks model-sized, but Chuck’s pretty goddamn sure the fabric on display came from fucking Hobby Lobby or some shit like that. Must suck, trying to design anything in a place without decent fabric stores, and Chuck’s suddenly extremely grateful he made the move to LA. 

Not that there was much of anything holding him in Sydney anyway. Not with Mum gone and the rest of the family highly disinterested in the gay would-be fashion designer. Fucking bogans, the lot of them.

They finally tell Raleigh to sit down, and some shaven-headed girl from Hong Kong takes his place. Chuck’s even less impressed with her shit. At least Raleigh had some tailoring on display. God, he’s so sick of this bullshit drapery crap people are into now. Hanging some fabric on a dress form and figuring out ways to strap it to the body is so not innovative. What is this, the fucking Regency still?

He tunes her out, turning back to the notes given to them all by the production team. The briefing before this thing started was intense, half an hour of the director talking at them about the rules, what they can and can’t do, what they will and won’t be allowed to have. No cell phones, no Internet access, no TV, no sketchpads or tablets outside the workroom... no sex.

Yeah, right. Like there’s anyone here he wants to fuck anyway. 

Chuck flips to the official bios on the judges. Same set-up as it always is. It’ll be interesting to see what it’s really like, before the editing and the story manipulation takes place.

Head judge is, as in years past, Stacker Pentecost, the bloke everyone in the industry calls the Marshall on account of how he runs his lifestyle line like a goddamn military organization. Born in London, emigrated to Hong Kong with his family at age ten, orphaned at twelve by a fire at his old man’s nightclub. Spent the last two decades building his business into the international phenomenon it is today. The bio contains a nice little blurb about how he pitched the PPDC as a way of highlighting talent in the Pacific Rim, far from the bright lights of Paris. Chuck’s pretty sure it’s cause he smelled money, but who the fuck knows?

There’s Sasha Kaidnovsky, back as host. One of the biggest supermodels in the world, her hometown is Vladivostok, which is her wedge into this thing probably. Her CV is attached. Chuck doesn’t much care. Someday he wants to be running models like this, not having them tell him what to do. Still, she’s far more intimidating in person than he would have thought.

Tendo Choi is rounding out the judging panel this year, which is an interesting choice. Came in second on his season a few years back, but he’s done far better than the winner has in terms of establishing and selling his brand. Chuck met him at an industry event here in town about a year ago - if exchanging a blow job in a back bedroom qualifies as _meeting_ \- and he hopes that won’t count against him. They were both a little drunk. Hopefully, the bloke won’t remember him. 

Bruce and Trevin Gage, co-founders of the wildly successful Romeo Blue brand, are here as mentors. Officially - according to the packet - this is not a competition between the two of them, but Chuck’s seen every season of this show; it’s always a competition. They divie up the contestant designers into informal teams and do their best to kick the crap out of each other. 

_Special guests to be announced week by week_.

Chuck just hopes he isn’t going to make an ass out of himself. No outerwear challenges. He’ll be fine if they don’t have any goddamn outwear challenges.

“Chuck Benton, front and center. Let’s go, young man, haven’t got all day.”

Shit. He must have zoned out.

His rack’s up there.

Chuck gets to his feet. 

He can do this. This is what it’s all been about.

And making his way down to the front of the room, he catches sight of a gorgeous silver fox sitting in the front row. Mid forties, strong jaw, the kind of guy who looks like he’s better suited to the military than something like the fashion world, and judging from how flat the front of his non-descript henley is, he’s got a very nice body under there.

Blue eyes.

Very nice blue eyes.

Hell.

He did not need that kind of distraction.

“And who is this?” Stacker asks, pointing at Max before Chuck can say a damn thing.

“That’s Maximillian Rockatansky, Marshall. He’s m’ service dog.”

Stacker’s facial expression doesn’t change but for one slightly arched eyebrow, and Chuck gets the distinct feeling this is Very Significant. “Service dog? What could a strapping young lad like yourself need a service dog for?”

 _Don’t say PTSD_ , Chuck tells himself, and shrugs, trying to play it off like it’s all good. “Diabetes. He warns me when my blood sugar’s low. Saves my life, he does.” It’s not entirely a lie. He doesn’t even want to think about where he’d be without his dog. What the medication had barely touched for years, Max fixed in a matter of weeks. And the last thing Chuck needs during this damn competition is an anxiety attack.

“I like his outfit,” Sasha comments, a big smile on her blood-red lips. “We have a little fashionista service dog.”

“He likes his bowties,” Chuck replies.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Trevin says, while Sasha furiously writes something in her notebook, “let’s see what you’ve got for us sweetie.”

Henley’s watching him intently. 

Dear lord, Chuck hopes they’re rooming together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super short chapter, but we're back on track and done with Space City Comic Con. Sadly, I did not get Charlie Hunnam's autograph. They had some massive Sons of Anarchy reunion thing, so the place was flooded with people wanting to get their motorcycle fenders signed. Shit you not, people with fenders waiting an hour and half in line. Crazy. Went back today, but I guess Charlie wasn't here on Sunday. *sighs*
> 
> I did get a lot of compliments on the steampunk Chuck cosplay, so that's nice! I'm really pleased with how it turned out. I may or may not be starting up a separate costuming blog that I may or may not put photos of those up on... we'll see. I don't want the streams getting crossed.


	3. Chapter 3

“I could see that she had no idea what she was doing with the bobbin, so I decided to...”

“Can you back up, Raleigh? Remember, we need you to say everything in the present tense.”

The producer’s British. Makes her sound even more bitchy than she is, and she’s pretty bitchy. Or maybe it’s just him. Having to sit down and do interviews after an insane morning of last-minute sewing, hair and make-up, and sitting through the fucking runway, the judges’ verdict still hours off...

Yeah, he had no idea it would be _this_ involved. Or stressful. Hell, the sewing was the easy part.

“Okay, do I just...”

“Just start over!”

Raleigh shifts on the uncomfortable stool, trying to figure out how to say this right. There’s so many damn rules. Don’t look at the camera, don’t use curse words, don’t talk like normal people talk. But at the same time, the last thing he wants to do is go back to that damn holding room, where nobody’s allowed to talk at all until after the judging. 

“I see that Mako is struggling with the sewing machine right off the bat. I know it’s going to cost me some time, but I sit down and show her how to thread it.”

“Do you know she’s only been sewing for a few months?” the producer asks.

“How is that even possible?” he replies, somewhat taken aback. “Didn’t we have to sew our own looks that we sent in, you know, the ones they evaluated us on a couple days ago?”

“Moving on. Describe how you felt about the judging today. What goes through your head as you’re watching your look come down the runway?”

This, too, Raleigh has to think about. Yesterday, they were all presented with a pack of fabric swatches in the same color. Different weaves, different fibers, same color, all to be provided in the designers’ lounge. The challenge was to make something unique to one’s own point of view with the exact same materials, but Raleigh’s pretty sure a big part of it was fabric choice. 

It had been chaos, a whirlwind of fabric scraps and cameramen, contestants running to and fro, desperately trying to get something together in the one day they had to work, desperate to prove to the Marshall that yes, they had the basic, essential sewing knowledge to make it in this competition.

Mako had almost failed it. Everyone helped her; everyone. And then she came in second. Raleigh’s not sure yet if that’s raw talent coming out or if they’re all a pack of idiots, but she’s... man, she’s cool. And hot. Very hot, like painfully hot. Those little blue streaks at her temples...

“Raleigh, runway.”

“Right, I, uhh, I see a look I’ve designed coming down the runway for the first time and I’m just blown away. I had no idea I could make something so strong in only one day. I’m in love with it.”

The producer cocks her head. Her chair looks comfortable. Isn’t fair. “You’ve never seen your work on a runway before?”

“No ma’am.”

“Why not? You did attend design school, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I uhh, I did three semesters at Parsons in New York City, but I didn’t graduate. It’s on my application for the show, I think?”

“Yes, we do have your educational background. Your grades looked good. What happened?”

“My mom got cancer,” he says as matter-of-factly as he can - because he is not going to cry on camera, he is just _not_ going to do that thing. All of America’s probably going to think he’s gay after this anyway, and he’d like to get laid again at some point in his life. “They caught it at Stage Four, my dad was in Tokyo, my brother was in Afghanistan and my sister was still in high school. I went home.”

“So you gave up your education for your family?”

“I got four more months with my mom. She made me promise I wouldn’t give up on my dream. I don’t wanna let her down.”

+++++

Thank god, when Raleigh gets back to the room, there are only two more people who have to go talk at the camera (but not _at_ the camera). They’re only stuck staring at each other in silence for another twenty minutes, and then it’s time for the runway judging.

“Before we start,” Stacker says, the second the director gets them all lined up, “ladies and gents, I have to say, I am so impressed with the way you handled that color. It was hideous, like something Satan would decorate a baby’s room in, but some of you managed to make it look quite refined.”

Sasha grins. 

It’s very wolf-like. Much scarier in person.

+++++

“So where is the little shithead?”

“Took his dog for a walk. I guess there’s some kind of pet area up on the roof. Producers told him he could use it.”

“Service dog, my ass. No way he’s got diabetes.”

“Diabetes? He told me it was a heart condition...”

“My point exactly, Newton.”

“Guys, he’s not...”

“He came in the bottom and now he’s throwing a temper tantrum. Goodie for him. He’s probably going to be this season’s little drama queen and the rest of us relegated to third-class roles, despite the fact we all did better work than him. Tell me, Raleigh, do you have any confidence in that child’s taste level?”

Chuck did get permission to use the apartment’s rooftop deck to walk Max, but it wasn’t really for Max. Max is cool with those wee-wee pads, and they clean up super easy. Chuck just wanted to be able to go outside from time to time. Despite all the hours he spends in his normal life locked up in his tiny studio, he finds himself craving open sky.

He isn’t sure what, exactly, he was expecting from his roommates when he left the room. That Newt guy from Oregon and Gottlieb, some British-German dude from Hong Kong, have been fighting like fucking dingoes since they got assigned to bunk together, two days ago. Maybe them arguing again. Raleigh deep-throating one of them (the guy’s a bottom, has to be a bottom, dear lord, how is he not?). Something.

Certainly didn’t anticipate coming back to hear them all talking about him.

But what the fuck was he supposed to do with that fabric? The color was atrocious, some baby blue that has never been in style. So what if he fucking dyed it? They hadn’t said he couldn’t. And it’s so not his fault that the only dye they’ve got on hand was stored under the sink in the lounge in a box that was open, at least, and it was Rit dye, and everybody knows how shit Rit dye is, so of course it’s not going to come out Stacker’s preferred shade of whatever the fuck. The dress he made was perfect. _Perfect_.

Fuck them.

Fuck everybody in this stupid competition. 

But his bed’s in there. And he’s exhausted. Tomorrow, they don’t have to start until 8. Plenty of time to get at least six hours of sleep.

“Oi, you alright there?”

Chuck starts; it’s the old guy, the hot one. “Uhh, fine, fine,” he says, pulling back from his door, Max trundling along, close to his boots. “Just got Max his walk in.”

Herc gives him a look. Not one of those sweeping ones men use when they check him out. It’s curious, but not necessarily interested, and Chuck’s not used to that. What, he not cute enough for this old bastard? “Can’t place your accent. Where’re you from?”

“Sydney, but I spent a few years in London when m’ folks were working on the West End.”

“Ah. I’m a Sydney man myself.”

Seriously, why is Herc just staring at him like this? It’s very disconcerting. What the fuck does he want? “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

“What, like how us old farts gum our food and smell horrible?” Herc replies without missing a beat, and then squats down to pet Max, who’s trundled over to sniff him. Traitor. 

“Umm...”

“Thought your dress was quite good today,” Herc says, changing the subject like the jerk he obviously is. “Shame they dinged you for dyeing it. I wouldn’t let a color like that out the doors of my shop either.”

“What do you do, again?” Chuck asks, deliberately ignoring the obvious reply. He knows he should congratulate Herc for winning the first runway, but seriously. It should have been his. 

Herc doesn’t miss the slight either. Just sighs. “I’m currently on the Butterick creative development team.”

Chuck can’t believe that such a talented man would be wasting himself on that kind of shit. Chubby housewives in the Midwest making Halloween costumes for their bratty children. Doesn’t seem right, not right at all. “What, never wanted to reach for more?”

“Less stress than m’ last fucking job, less responsibility, better hours, all that,” he says, and shrugs. “Doesn’t pay as much, but got used to not living with much before, don’t need much now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Twenty years of alimony does amazing things to your standard of living.”

Chuck narrows his eyes. “No way you’re straight.”

And Herc pets Max once more. Stands. Smiles. “You know how many straight blokes out there love a little cock on the side?”

“Yeh, I’ve fucked plenty of ‘em. You ain’t that type of man.”

“Oh honey,” Herc says in a low, low voice, “you have no idea what type of man I am.”

Chuck can’t tell if that tone is annoyed or flirtatious, but dammit, if his cock doesn’t wake up and take notice. 

It’s kind of a good thing.

Forces him to go back to the room so he can wank off in the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters it is!


	4. Chapter 4

The morning of the second challenge, the camera crew’s in their room to record them fixing breakfast. It’s getting easier to ignore them, which Raleigh is eternally grateful for; maybe they’ll just fade into the background entirely, his brain canceling them out like a bad smell, and he’ll be able to put his entire focus into his designs.

He thinks he knows why they’re here though. Chuck. It’s gotta be Chuck. They want to see Chuck pout or whine or... something. But the kid hasn’t done anything like that yet this morning. In fact, he’s been rather quiet. 

Hermann and Newt, on the other hand, haven’t shut up.

“Newton, I don’t know what in God’s green earth you’re trying to do in here, but clearly, you’re attempting to poison us all!”

“And I am trying to tell you, Herm, that there is nothing wrong...”

“We have a competition at hand, and the idea of spending half the day in the toilet because of you...”

“It’s fine! I made this all the time in grad school and... stop it, man!”

Really, three years olds. Raleigh’s living with a room full of three year olds. All he wants is to drink his coffee and have his pre-challenge freak-out in peace. But no, he has to listen to Max snore all night - adorable, but _loud_ \- and wake up to this. And what would Mama have said about this? She’d probably have cussed all of them out in French, then sat them down and fed them something good. Or, at least, edible. 

“Hey guys,” he says loudly, “why don’t I make breakfast?”

They both fall silent. Mercifully, beautifully silent. 

It takes every ounce of self control he’s got not to just muscle into the kitchen rip Newt out of the way. But then, he does have six inches and at least thirty pounds on the MIT drop-out, so Newt kind of just moves on his own. He happily squeezes past, into the cramped confines of the tiny kitchen, and unceremoniously dumps whatever the _fuck_ that mess on the stove into the sink.

“But I wanted scramblecakes,” Newt whines, as Raleigh flips the water on.

“Dude, this shit does not qualify as food, much less... what did you call it?”

“Scramblecakes. You never made scramblecakes? It’s like an omelette but with pancakes?”

Raleigh just looks at him. That look Yancy taught him; the one you use on the new lieutenants who get in bar fights downtown and have to be bailed out on Sunday mornings.

Newt backs off.

And Raleigh knows damn well this is not the way to behave in this world - the fashion industry might be a tough business, but the rules of engagement aren’t exactly what they are in Anchorage. He’s been spending too much time in temp construction jobs. 

It does mean he gets to make fresh pancakes, though. Pancakes are worth it. By the time he’s turned out half a box’s worth, he’s almost got his zen back - and the Newt-Herman disaster shut down.

But, of course, there’s always his roommate.

“You cook for your boyfriend a lot there, Ray?”

Goddamn. Wasn’t he in the shower a minute ago? “I don’t have a boyfriend, Chuck.”

And yes, apparently Chuck was in the shower a minute ago, because his hair is dripping wet and his ginger skin flushed red. Mercifully, he is wearing a bathrobe. A bright pink bathrobe with a dog logo on the left breast area. Definitely a girl’s bathrobe. Max has a matching pink bow-tie on today, and his SERVICE DOG DO NOT PET vest has been heavily tailored to look like, well, a vest. It’s also pink. 

Wait. Does Chuck actually coordinate his dog’s outfits to his own?

Is Chuck wearing that bathrobe to the workroom today? 

“Who’s that cutie you’ve got next to your bed?” the little Aussie smartass asks.

Huh? Oh. “That’s my brother.”

“You make him pancakes in the morning?”

“All the time,” he replies without thinking - because yes, yes, breakfast is his job. If he didn’t force Yancy to eat, Yancy wouldn’t remember to, and when Yancy doesn’t eat, he has a tendency to get extremely light-headed. Doesn’t work all that well when a guy’s job is flying fucking _jets_ with bombs strapped to the underside.

Chuck smirks.

Raleigh remembers the cameras then, and wonders if they’re going to use any of this. If he’s going to be portrayed like the in-denial gay guy. Man, that would really suck. He has a hard enough time being straight in this industry without getting branded as some closeted self-hating jerk-off from Alaska on national TV. He’d like to get laid sometime this decade.

(Preferably by Mako. She has very nice tits. Not that he only likes her for that. But he would kind of like to see her naked. And do other things with her to and not just sex but he's just a man and there's nothing wrong with wanting to get laid, right?)

“So,” he says, “what do you think the challenge will be today?”

“Anything but the unconventional,” Chuck replies. 

“Indeed. Seems so vulgar, having to make beauty from spare parts.”

“No, fuck that, I’ll do whatever they want me to do here,” Chuck says. “Doesn’t matter in the slightest. I’d fancy a trip to Mood, is all.”

Raleigh fancies that the kid sounds a little rattled, less confident than he did before. “You want some pancakes?” he asks. “There’s enough batter left.”

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t burn ‘em, eh Ray?”

He’s tempted.

He doesn’t.

It would probably make it on TV too. 

At least Raleigh knows he doesn’t have to worry about being made into the season’s villain. That spot is definitely going to be saved for Chuck.

+++++

The universe hates him. That’s the only explanation. Because Chuck really did want to go to Mood. Breathe in that smell of good textile and feel fabric under his fingers and get some goddamn inspiration again.

Instead, he’s in a goddamn gardening store.

Unconventional challenge day.

But while Chuck might have learned in design school to keep his mouth shut about where he learned the basics of sewing and garment-making, he’s never actually forgotten any of it. Growing up backstage in Mum’s theaters was pretty much the perfect education in how to make anything work, on any budget, no matter how crazy it is. 

He decides, right then, watching Hermann having a meltdown in the birdseed aisle, that this is his challenge to lose. None of the rest of these fuckers have any idea how to navigate this place, much less how to work something like this. 

Now to see if this place has liquid starch.

+++++

Fortunately, Chuck’s able to get more than enough liquid starch for the armor-dress design he has in his head.

Unfortunately, Raleigh Becket finds the damn Elmer’s glue and coats a dress in birdseed and somehow, they’re both still on the runway, suffering through final critiques.

Whoever invented the term “ombre,” Chuck would like to punch them in the face. Even with Stacker Pentecost’s utterly delicious accent, it’s an annoying word. So what if Raleigh managed to get (an admittedly interesting) color pattern with his birdseed? It’s literally a shift dress with birdseed on it. _Birdseed_.

“I have to say Chuck, I thought yours was a bit... craft project,” Sasha’s saying to him now.

He grits his teeth. “Yes, using chicken wire and paper mache as a base for the outer design could be interpreted that way...”

“So you made a pinata? That is what you are telling me?”

“No. I did not make a pinata. Just because you’re using basic materials does not mean the end product is automatically some kind of craft project. I feel I made something,” and Chuck glances at his model, reaching for inspiration, “sublime.”

“I enjoyed your look very much,” Stacker says. “There’s something very theatrical and otherworldly about it. Exactly what one wants to see on the runway. However, you’re still leaving me doubtful as to your abilities to translate dreams into reality, something you’ll need to do in order to make it in this industry.”

“Fashion is a dream,” Chuck snaps back. “Do you think the average woman on the street will ever look like this?”

Tendo flips his rosary beads back into his hand. He’s been playing with them for the last twenty minutes, and it’s unnerving somehow. The producers won’t let Chuck take Max on stage with him; Chuck can feel himself getting desperate for the reassuring feel of his pup leaning on his calf. 

“That’s kind of insulting, isn’t it?” Tendo asks.

“It’s the truth. The truth isn’t insulting or mean or anything. It just is. Why should my runway design have to be dumbed down to ready-to-wear to be worth anything? Do you think Raleigh’s design is ready to wear? If some girl bought that at Sacs and wore it outside, she’d be pecked to death by pigeons!” 

In the end, Chuck’s dismissed, which means Raleigh or that Chinese bloke won. And he’s almost relieved, because it gets him off the runway thirty seconds sooner and backstage, where Bruce Gage is waiting for him, Max at his side.

His mentor drops the dog’s leash, and Max woofs happily, little wrinkly butt wriggling furiously as Chuck scoops him up. “Heya boy. Did you miss me?”

Bruce pats him on the shoulder. “I told you they were going to hit you for being too crafty,” he says in a low voice. “Voice of experience here.”

Chuck wants to ask how they’re supposed to avoid being crafty on a challenge that’s all about _craft materials_ \- because if anybody is going to be honest with him here, it’s the Gages - but Raleigh pops back up then, all grins.

“I won!”

And Bruce sighs. “Hell. Hang on to that excitement, kid. We’ve got to get you back to the lounge, let the cameras record this... all that shit. Chuck, you go... what, Raleigh?”

The big puppy dog doofus has a wistful expression on his face. “Nothing, sorry. My brother calls me kid like that.”

“You mean your fuck-friend,” Chuck can’t help but say.

Raleigh rolls his eyes. “Why would I fuck my brother?”

“I don’t know, maybe cause he’s not your brother.” There is no way that hot piece of American pie, the one in the photo on Raleigh’s nightstand, is straight. No way they’re related, either. That guy is way sexier than Raleigh. Has to be his boyfriend. 

Bruce laughs a little, and claps Raleigh on the back. “Next thing, you’ll be telling us you’re straight.”

Raleigh really does look like he’s going to punch something.

He’s hotter when he’s pissed off, Chuck thinks. But personally, he likes ‘em a few years older.

Kind of like Herc. 

Not that he’s here to get laid.

Although some sex would be nice after being up on the runway like that. Half an hour up there, and it was almost starting to feel like a stage, and that’s one place Chuck doesn’t ever want to find himself again.

Later, after they’ve filmed the lounge reactions and the contestant who’s leaving and all crap, the producers fill them in on where dinner will be served (their rooms) and the call time for tomorrow (nine AM) and then let them go, except for Chuck.

“What’d I do?” he asks, too tired for any more reality show shit tonight.

The producer purses her lips. “I noticed we don’t actually have an emergency contact for you on your paperwork. I do need...”

He bristles. Oh, fuck this. He is not having this conversation with these people. They’ll put it on the fucking air. And while yeah, sure, reality TV loves that kind of shit, Chuck’s here to win the means to make something good out of the rest of his life, not relive what’s happened. What’s not happening. “No, you don’t.”

“Chuck, we have had accidents on this show before. What if you landed yourself in the hospital?”

“I’ve got a living will. It’s fine.”

“But Chuck, we need a name for...”

“There’s nobody to call,” he says bluntly. “Nobody would pick up the phone so why don’t you leave it the fuck alone?”

He thinks about going by Herc’s room, after they get back to the apartments. It was one of his roommates who went home tonight, wasn’t it? But he’s not sure what he wants there, much less how to ask for it, so he settles for shoving some earplugs in and curling up in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, what is this? What is my life? And why am i thinking about rounding out this little reality show AU kick with an alpha/omega verse version of Millionaire Matchmaker...


	5. Chapter 5

There’s no such thing as a groove on the PPDC, but Chuck’s used to that kind of schedule. Unpredictable challenges? Models that don’t show up for fittings? Random curveballs thrown out by the hosts six hours before showtime? Hell, it’s almost exactly like working in the costuming department. Right down to all the smart-arse remarks about his age.

Not that that makes anything better. Just familiar.

“Chuck, we’ve talked about this theatrical streak of yours and how much Sasha hates it. I know editing normally comes with experience, but you do not have the luxury of time, young man.”

Bruce is frowning at the pile of ruffles currently adorning his dress form - Bruce is always frowning at his dress form, it seems. But yet, the (slightly) older Gage twin keeps picking him during the pre-challenge Bruce/Trev team selection, so Bruce has to like something he does, right? Has to see something worth working on. And sure, Chuck’s not exactly happy with this design either, but it’s not like it’s done yet. 

“Well, I’m not going to just leave it like this,” he grumbles. 

“So what is the plan? Adding, or subtracting?”

“I know what your plan would be.” He does, too. He knows exactly what this dress would look like, coming out of the Romeo Blue boutique at Sacs. It wouldn’t have fucking ruffles on it. It would be sleek and simple and way too American Pie for his fucking taste, but Bruce is the one with the multimillion dollar business, now isn’t he?

“But my answer can’t be your answer, Chuck. You need to ask yourself, who is Chuck Benton? What does he want to do in the fashion world? What does he want out of life? Why is he here? What is he sharing with us and why do we care?”

There’s nothing to be gained by having that conversation on camera, much less showing how deep that cuts, so Chuck just flashes his mentor a smile. “What, like, endless cock?”

He’s pretty sure that won’t make it on TV.

He gets out of there the second the cameras leave him, storming out as fast as Max’s little legs will allow, headed straight for the break room.

It’s time he can’t afford to lose, but it’s a break he can’t afford not to take. Nothing he’s been doing has been turning out right the last few challenges - not outerwear, which Raleigh won, or resort gear, which was a bloody awful team challenge and of course Mako won, since Stacker seems so fucking enamored with everything she does. He can see his designs so clearly at the start of these challenges. Why can’t he work any of it out the way he envisions? 

He’s completely off his game, and he can’t even blame it on his fucking brain. This has nothing to do with what happened to his mum. Nothing to do with any of the shit that normally steps on those memories. 

“You look tense, sprog. Still can’t manage those darts?”

It’s Herc. Sipping coffee at one of the small tables like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he doesn’t have a half-finished dress in there himself. 

Like he isn’t balls deep in this stupid vintage-inspired evening wear challenge.

“Fuck off,” Chuck grumbles, heading for the thermal carafes on the counter himself and helping himself to a massive mug. “Like they do a lot of evening wear at Butterick.”

“As if they do a lot of evening wear in the theater,” Herc replies mildly.

Chuck freezes, sugar packet in hand. “I don’t do theater shit.”

“You did at one point.”

Coffee forgotten, Chuck drops into the open seat at Herc’s table, staring at him. “Says who, old man?”

Herc rolls his eyes. “It’s your point of view, Chuck. It’s unmistakable. Costumes are designed with outsized detail, with completely different color theory and emphasized style lines. Corners are cut while silhouettes are maintained. Easy access in and out of the garment is important, and nobody in there is better with zippers than you.” He shrugs. “I see a lot of the theater in what you do.”

“You design a lot of theater costumes for Butterick?”

“Tragically, that obnoxious comic convention craze has us all scrambling for a better no-effort TARDIS dress pattern,” Herc replies. “I’ve flat out told my bosses I won’t touch that shit anymore. I recognize bullshit when I see it.”

“You calling me shit, old man?”

“We had a situation a few years back where they contracted with a well-known blogger to do a series of historically accurate 1700s dresses. But you can’t get metal boning from fucking Jo-Ann’s and there are only so many pattern pages that can fit in an envelop and of course nobody knows any basic hand-sewing techniques anymore,” Herc says and waves his hand. “So the gorgeous patterns this sheila came up with got dumbed down to the point of why the fuck even bother. I couldn’t even be in the pattern development department while they were doing the mock-ups. Fucking depressing, that was.”

It’s the most Chuck’s ever heard Herc say in one go. He doesn’t talk much. Still. The fuck? “Huh?”

“What you do is what you do. And if you don’t do it the way you do it, it’ll be worthless.”

“But the judges hate what I do.”

“They hate what you do when you give them their version of what you do. They don’t fucking respect it, so of course it’s going to be shit.”

“So...”

“You’re pursuing fashion for a reason. Show ‘em.”

Chuck still gets himself some coffee. Sits far away from Herc. Stares at the lounge ceiling for a little over ten minutes, trying to see his way through this. But it’s the sight of Raleigh and Mako coming in, all smiles and giggles and bullshit, that gets him back into the work room.

Fuck them. 

If Raleigh wants to start experimenting with vagina, that’s his problem. Chuck’s here to win (which is totally the reason why he hasn’t tried to jump Herc’s bones yet. Not at all the fact that the bloke is kind of intimidating and maybe not gay and probably doesn’t have much interest in a twenty-one year old who’s got PTSD problems when he could have anybody he fucking fancies.)

So yeah. Chuck knows what to do with those goddamn ruffles.

+++++

Nobody congratulates him when he comes back to the lounge two days later with a victory. They all smile and say _good job_ , but it’s not really a congratulations. Max is the only one who’s happy to see him.

Chuck winds his hand tighter in his dog’s leash and tells himself it doesn’t matter.

+++++

Raleigh was expecting Chuck to turn into some puffed-up little monster, getting his first win out there on the runway today (and with a red dress no less. A ruffled red dress. About the most stereotypical thing on paper, which is a testament to just how creative the thing was). Instead, the kid’s been subdued. Almost silent. Walked back to the apartments with the rest of them and, after divesting Max of today’s little fashionista service vest, disappeared into the shower.

It’s probably the calm before the storm, considering the way Chuck’s frustration has been ramping up the past few challenges. Raleigh was hoping a win might chill him out. 

Doesn’t look like anybody’s going to be that lucky.

He’s so sick of the snide remarks. The little side comments. The _pouting_ \- dear lord, the pouting never seems to stop.

At least the cameras don’t follow them back on nights after the runway shows. Probably would ruin the viewing experience for the audience. They’re always exhausted. Personally, Raleigh’s more hungry than tired right now, and at least the fridge got restocked off his shopping list today. His roommates - all three of them - are probably going to be hangry assholes when they show back up. Food makes everything better, right?

Raleigh didn’t bother closing the door when he came in - everybody seems to wander into each other’s rooms at night anyway - so it’s not all that surprising to see Herc there in the kitchenette when he pulls his head out of the icebox.

The older man’s proven to be a strong competitor. Twenty years in the business will do that, Raleigh supposes, but for all his skill, Herc doesn’t seem all that interested in launching his own fashion line. He told the judges on one of the last runways that he was looking for a way out of a professional rut he’s been in, which is fine. Raleigh’s pretty sure he’ll get weeded out before the finals - or self-select out - but in the meantime, he’s sort of enjoying watching the man work. Clearly a vet. Raleigh would actually like to pick his brains, but he hardly speaks to anyone. Even on the runway, he just looks annoyed to be explaining himself at all. 

“Hey man. What’s up?”

“You don’t have to cook, you know. There’s food down the hall.”

“Yeah, I’m getting tired of all the catered-in meals.”

“Right,” Herc says, and there’s something in the carelessness of his gaze that makes Raleigh want to squirm. “The sprog around?”

“Sprog?”

“Chuck,” Herc clarifies.

Aussie slang. Having Herc around makes Raleigh appreciate just how much Chuck actually edits himself. On the talking, at least. Dear god, his designs could use it. “Uhh, I think he’s in the shower.”

“D’you reckon he locked the door?”

And there it is. Is Herc actually gay? Bi? He was married, right? Bi, at least? Shit. Are they fucking? In the room? Because that would just be... hell, that would really uncomfortable. “Umm...”

Herc shrugs, and claps Raleigh on the shoulder. “Reckon I’ll catch him next time. Have a good night.”

Raleigh doesn’t mention it to Chuck, when Chuck finally drags his pink bathrobe-clad ass out of the bathroom. Instead, he just feeds the little Aussie ingrate.

Chuck doesn’t talk.

At least that’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write something for the Marvel MCU, somebody reminds me why fucking around in the MCU is a horrible idea.
> 
> In other news, I finally got a real job. Yay!


	6. Chapter 6

If there’s anything Herc was not expecting during this whole PPDC insanity, it was the late nights. Not that he’s not used to late nights. But he’s not used to late nights, night after night after night, squeezing every spare ounce of creativity out of himself in an attempt to show up a bunch of younger, hipper, more with-it designers. He’s pushing forty-five, his energetic military days long behind him, and yes, that shrapnel in his left leg still gives him trouble from time to time. He’s _old_.

(Something, no doubt, the producers will have a field day with.)

At least this shit this morning is better than most morning, cooped up in the sound stage that serves as the runway room, sitting around on hard chairs in the cold, waiting for something to happen. Getting rounded up at six AM, loaded onto a bus, and driven up to the observatory here in L.A. wasn’t exactly fun, but at least they’re outside.

They are still waiting around though, the production team just done with mic’ing everyone up, the cameramen just over there by the gardens, fussing with their equipment. There’s no way of telling when shooting proper will begin, so Herc’s trying to occupy his tired brain by ignoring the jittery nerves of nine other people, ignoring the glances Chuck keeps throwing his way - that boy is delicious, but dear lord, isn’t he just the definition of high maintenance? 

If the boy really wants Herc to give him the good dicking he obvious wants (and needs), he should come over and ask politely. 

He needs to stop fucking looking and come over and...

Okay, so Herc knows he’s a little cranky right now. 

And maybe he was a little cranky on the runway last night, with Stacker - whose lifestyle line Herc has always found to be a little overpriced and very much too poncy for his taste - pontificating about every fucking detail that was wrong with his dress, while Mako, yet again, got praised for a jumpsuit the model had to be cut out of after the show. 

Herc wouldn’t call himself a petty man, but it is starting to get frustrating. Mako’s got design talent, but she lacks craftsmanship. Praising the former will likely only lead to neglect of the latter, and it would be a shame for her to retard her career development here. She could be great, but she needs to learn how to install a zipper. 

Stacker’s old enough to know this, too, which makes the whole thing that much more baffling. 

Mako shouldn’t have won last night. Chuck, maybe (although that boy has a whole different set of issues he needs to overcome), or Hermann, surprisingly. Raleigh had phoned it in, even though he insisted over breakfast - he makes a damn good breakfast - that he’d really tried his best. Herc had tried, but he’d known it wasn’t his best work.

Basing a sundress off a parrot was a terribly idiotic idea. Honestly, who writes this shit? And who keeps the damn runway room this cold, and who thought that particular air freshener was a good idea, and...

“Oh god, what is this?” somebody whines.

It’s the Gages.

Not Sasha, but the Gages. 

One of them is swinging the button bag like it’s a medieval mace.

Knowing this competition, whatever’s coming will probably hurt just about as bad.

“Is everybody enjoying the field trip this morning?” one of them - Bruce, Herc thinks, cause of the polka dots - asks cheerily.

There are nods. A few yawns. 

“Now, you might be wondering what the challenge is...”

“...an entirely reasonable thing to wonder about...”

“... and this week, we want to expand your horizons. Have you look at the bigger world of fashion. So our challenge is going to be about the single most important thing a fashion designer needs to know how to do.”

“Can anybody tell us what that is?”

Herc’s got a pretty good idea what those blokes are getting at. He lets a few of the kids in this thing offer varying levels of hilariously wrong answers - what do they teach in design school? - but it’s not until Chuck puts his hand up that he interrupts. 

(The boy is just not good with being told he’s wrong. And unlike Mako, Herc’s pretty sure it’s not a result of too much praise, but far too little. The arrogance is all about fear. And yes, Herc knows he sucks with people, but Chuck’s an open book for him. Maybe it’s just because he really wants to fuck the boy. Or he’s just making shit up in his head.)

“Working in teams,” Herc says loudly, before Chuck can get his own words out. “If you can’t work in a team, you can’t work in a design house, and let’s face it, most us do not end up working for ourselves.”

Chuck blinks, and then glares. “Speak for yourself, old man,” he snaps.

 _Old man._ Of course. Like Herc needs the reminder that he’s older than the fucking judges. He tries not to sigh. “Voice of experience, kid.”

“Voice of failure. When’s the last time you worked on a real collection instead of fucking around with goddamn Butterick toddler Halloween costumes?”

 _The year before my money grubbing ex-wife died,_ he wants to say, but there are cameras watching them, after all. And Angie had always been a little paranoid about money, even before the divorce. The erratic nature of military paychecks used to drive her up the wall.

He just folds his arms and sinks further back in his chair. 

(He really hates thinking about Angie this much. It’s a bit difficult, with the anniversary of her death coming up and all. Fucking rotten time of year. If she’d just told him there was a problem, he would have fixed it. But no, she pulled that “I’m a woman and I have needs” thing on him, when she knew damn well he was terrible with that sort of thing, and had been for the entirety of their relationship.)

Trevin - who wears fewer patterns and more solid colors than Bruce does - clears his throat. “You guys jeer at him all you want, but Herc’s the only one who got that right. Yes, working in teams is essential to making it in the fashion world.”

Bruce nods. “Usually at this point in the competition, my twin here and I start fighting over who gets to mentor which designers.”

“You know we like to pick our little teams...”

“... but we usually don’t tell y’all which team you happen to fall on...”

“... it’s more of our private thing.”

“And we’re not going to tell you now.”

“But we thought it might be fun to have a challenge where we both have a team and make you fight it out for us A little brotherly competition, if you will. You’re going to be putting together a collection inspired by this wonderful location. Six looks too, so don’t think you can each just do your own and get away with it.”

Bruce grins wider at the groaning that ensues.

“That’s not even the best part either, kiddos.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. This week, we’re going to be sitting on the judging panel.”

“And we both get to vote on who’s in and who’s out.”

Herc sees no reason to be leaning forward right now, like half his competitors are, and he folds his arms, scratching an itch on his neck. Nicked himself shaving this morning. Lovely. Itches terribly. 

“So now we’re going to pull buttons for our challenge teams.”

Herc honestly doesn’t care if he’s Team Trevin or Team Bruce. 

What he does care about is if he’s on Team Chuck.

He’s not sure, however, if that means he does or doesn’t want to be on it. 

Kid’s a real fine piece of ass, to be sure. But he’s downright vicious when he wants to be.

High maintenance.

Why are all the pretty boys high maintenance?

+++++

“Herc, you gotta do something, man,” Raleigh finally says at ten PM that night. “Or I’m legit gonna kill him.”

It’s Chuck.

Of course it’s Chuck.

It’s always fucking Chuck.

(Except for it not actually involving _fucking Chuck_ )

“Mate, if he wants to storm off, we should let him,” Herc sighs and tosses his glasses on the work table so he can rub his eyes. “You need to stay focused on your pieces. How’s that jacket coming along?”

“We’re fucked, Herc, and it’s because Chuck won’t stop being an imperious little shit.”

Herc’s grateful that it’s just them in the workroom, everyone else fled to the sewing room or off in the break room. He really can’t take any more of this bullshit drama. 

(Chuck screaming at Newt for accidentally cutting out their evening dress bodice pieces on on the bias, instead of straight on the grain, was entirely uncalled for. But then, Newt did just fuck the whole team; there’s no salvaging the bodice, and they don’t have enough material to re-cut.)

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Something? He seems to listen to you.”

“Mate, Chuck doesn’t listen to anybody.” He gestures at the half-finished blazer Raleigh’s got spread out on the table. At least Raleigh’s a strong tailor. Mako’s weak on sewing and Newt’s weak on design and Chuck’s been throwing one bitch fit after another today, so it’s nice to have at least one other competent person on Team Bruce. “Can you get this done tonight? You’re gonna need to help Newt and Mako out tomorrow morning, finishing up their pieces.”

Raleigh just looks tired. “Can you get Chuck under control?”

Herc sighs. “I gotta take a piss,” he mutters and steps away, giving poor Max - huddled in his kennel under the table - a sympathetic little smile. Poor dog. 

He feels like he’s calming down.

Until he opens the bathroom door and sees Chuck in there. Just standing there at the mirrior. Applying eye make-up. Like he hasn’t a care in the world.

And there’s something about it just...

The door slams shut.

Chuck looks up from his compact.

“Herc,” Chuck begins, but Herc really doesn’t care what kind of bullshit the kid’s going to spew at him right now.

Right now, it’s time for baby boy to sit down, shut up, and do as he’s told.

Or at least, go where Herc’s taking him.

Straight back against the counter. Chuck makes a grunting noise as Herc all but throws him into it, but bounces off just as quick, trying to come for him. 

But Herc just grabs him by the throat again, hand open and fingers digging in enough to hurt, and holds him down. Chuck catches himself, bracing up, starting to struggle again.

“Oi, you old...”

“Fly open, pants down,” Herc says in a low voice.

Chuck goes still, and Herc wonders if he’s misjudged the situation. Sure, he’s pissed at the kid, but he’s still in control of his temper. This isn’t about... that.

“What?” Chuck asks, voice more uncertain now.

That’s good, at least. Getting through that overconfident facade. But Herc really doesn’t want to _actually_ hurt him, so he leans in, laying over the kid, bodies pressing close, letting Chuck feel him. “If you’re gonna spend the day acting like a three year old, I’m gonna treat you like one. Bad little boys get their bums swatted. So unzip your fucking fly and push your sinfully tight jeans down so I can administer what you are so obviously begging for.”

“You’re not my old man...”

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Herc purrs, reaching around to tug at the kid’s pants. He’s tenting already. Dear lord. High maintenance indeed. “You’d love your daddy to show up and paint your tight little arse red, wouldn’t you?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Chuck grumbles, but his voice sounds deliciously strangled.

“Me? No thanks. I like real boys and girls in my bed.” He gets Chuck’s pants open, and isn’t it lovely, how the kid is hard already just from the _threat_ of being spanked? Herc’s not normally into this sort of thing, but he’s always up for trying something new. “You’re welcome to think of me when you touch yourself though.”

“Fat chance.”

“Only fat thing is little Charlie here,” Herc replies, running his hand, palm flat, against Chuck’s hard-on. “He seems to be liking this.”

“I -ooh!”

The first light smack mixes with Chuck’s moan, and Herc realizes, in this moment, that he hasn’t been able to decide until now whether the kid needs a hug or a kick in the arse.

Well, why not both?

“Give me a word,” Herc whispers in his ear.

“Uhh, fuck, I don’t know... Mum?”

“Yeah, that’ll kill the mood for sure,” Herc replies drily, and smacks him again.

This time, Chuck moans.

Herc doesn’t go easy on the boy. Chuck’s been a proper little bitch today and he’s fucking earned a good, hard punishment. It’s not like Herc’s done this very much either, but he understands the basic concept of how to dole out a good spanking, and there’s something intoxicating about watching all this lovely pale skin turn red under his hand. 

Chuck’s sobbing by the time he finally stops.

Any more, and he risks doing actual damage, Herc’s pretty sure. 

That doesn’t stop Chuck from turning straight into Herc and wrapping his arms tight around Herc’s neck, clinging like an actual three year old at the tears soak Herc’s henley. 

There’s nothing else to be done, so Herc gathers the boy up and just holds him, letting him get out whatever the hell this is. He pets the boy’s hair - soft, despite all the product that’s in it - and kisses the top of his head, but he’s not sure what else he can or should do. Herc doesn’t think he’s ever had a boy cry on him like this. But girls seem to like it when the bloke’s just quiet, so that’s exactly what he does now.

After some length of time - Herc isn’t paying attention, but he does know they can’t really afford it, whatever it is - Chuck lifts his face.

“Better?” Herc murmurs, and he can’t resist stroking that tear-streaked face.

Chuck nods, and closes his eyes, snuggling - snuggling! - into Herc’s chest. “You’re hard,” he murmurs.

“No worries. Don’t mean anything.” He runs his hand through Chuck’s mussed hair. “You feel good enough to go back to the challenge?”

That gets him another look, but once again, Herc has no idea what it is he’s seeing on Chuck’s face. “I, uhh, I guess?”

“Would you like me to go out first, or shall you?”

And whatever he’d forced open in Chuck slams back down, and there’s nothing but that glare on the kid’s face. “Fuck you,” he snaps.

The fuck is that shit about?

+++++

They don’t finish up until four AM - Sasha showed up about fifteen minutes after the bathroom incident, granting them a little extra time, on acount of how she apparently didn’t like a goddamn thing she saw. Herc’s so exhausted, he doesn’t even care about the insult. 

Yeah, they’re behind. But that’s what happens when he’s saddled with a bunch of children who’ve only been sewing for a few years (if they know how to sew at all, and no, he’s not feeling particularly charitable towards any of them). Just because he knows how to do all this shit shouldn’t mean it’s fair to stick him as the seamstress and tailor for everyone else’s pieces. His wrists are aching.

And he’s in the middle of digging through his luggage for one of his carpal tunnel braces - it’s more the beginnings of arthritis at this point, but the braces work regardless - when his bedroom door opens.

There are only three of them in his room right now, and the other two took the other bedroom (and are no doubt passed out right now) so...

“Hey,” Chuck says, Max in his arms. 

He looks terrible. Huge bags under his eyes. He’ll probably bitch about it tomorrow.

He’s also clinging to that dog like the dog is the only thing he’s got left in the world - Herc’s seen that look on war orphans before - and Herc wonders again what the hell’s gone wrong in the boy’s life that he needs a service dog. It has to be anxiety or PTSD or something like that. No way Chuck’s got diabetes.

Herc sits down on his bed, and just looks at him. “Does Max sleep on the bed with you?”

“Usually.”

“Would he mind a blanket on the floor instead?”

+++++

Herc still wakes up with the dog sleeping on his legs, left foot completely numb.

But he also wakes up with Chuck in his arms. 

The boy looks incredibly sweet when he’s asleep.

Herc wants to know what’s wrong. What set him off so badly yesterday. Why he screamed at Newt and almost hit Raleigh a few times and called Mako a bitch to her face. What’s going on in his head that’s making Chuck hurt so bad he feels it appropriate to make everyone else hurt with him. But Herc’s not even sure how to put that into words. He’d probably just bungle the question and ruin everything.

Besides, Chuck is much more pleasant when he’s sleeping.

Cuter, and much, much quieter.

Herc kisses his forehead, and wonders how long it’ll be before the boy wakes up and the bitching starts anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEAR LORD I AM SO SORRY THIS IS TAKING ME FOREVER. Every time I think I have some time, something comes up. I'm only on contract work right now and I've never been this fucking busy...


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is my life? I don't even know. Also, Chuck's having a massive feels attack here... you've been warned.

The last thing Raleigh wants to do is move rooms.

Especially if that means moving into Herc’s room.

He likes Herc just fine - the Aussie has proven to be a tough competitor. Frankly, Raleigh would kind of like to just work for the guy for a few months, soak in all that knowledge of tailoring and couture, and... jesus, the man’s incredibly skilled. It’s bizarre he’s working for Butterick, but then, Raleigh heard something about a dead ex-wife, and that’s got to screw somebody up. Does Herc have kids out there somewhere? Tough to say.

Especially when it’s so goddamn obvious he and Chuck are fucking.

Or something. 

During the day they’re arguing more than ever, but the weariness in Aleksis’ eyes every time he looks at the two of them tells an entirely different story.

Technically, the show discourages relationships between contestants, but it’s honestly impossible to stop people from fucking if they feel like fucking. They’re all adults here, most of them on the same page as far as who they prefer as bedmates, and yeah, Raleigh gets it. He’s sure the producers get it. 

But despite the briefs about this stuff they all got before filming started, Chuck’s all but moved into Herc’s room. Ever since that one team challenge where the kid was such an unrepentant bitch, he’s been sleeping in Herc’s room. Probably in his bed, but who knows? It seems like it’s taken the edge off that vicious ginger temper, so at least there’s that.

Honestly Raleigh doesn’t care where anybody sticks their dick, but he doesn’t want to necessarily see it. Or hear it.

There’s no help for it, though.

“So have you recovered from the challenge yesterday?” Mako asks him from the small kitchenette, where she’s been making coffee. She came over a little while ago, and Raleigh’s grateful for her presence. There’s something so soothing about her, like she fits in to all the empty spaces in his life and makes him whole. He feels complete around her, so much so it’s scary.

“Yeah, mostly.”

“It was a lovely gown Chuck made.”

“Yeah, an integrated corset. Wish I’d thought of that,” he calls back, and jams another handful of dirty boxers into his bag. They do have two off days a week, but today isn’t one of those and the laundry’s been piling up. “It gave that woman an incredible figure.”

Mako plunks down on the bed opposite his, smiling a little. “You do not like a woman with curves?”

“No, it’s not that. I do tons of custom work. If you’re gonna make it as a designer, you can’t be biased against ladies with a figure. Especially in Alaska.” And it’s true. Raleigh has nothing against girls with some extra weight, but doesn’t necessarily date that. He likes his girls athletic. Not skinny, but strong and willowy. Kind of like Mako, actually...

“It is the same in Hawaii. Lots of skinny girls, but plenty of fat ones too.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say fat.”

She smiles a little. “It is accurate though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” The real woman challenge. He had been looking forward to it, really show his stuff, but then he cut his slit a little too high and his girl, unaccustomed to heels, had stumbled a bit on the train. Chuck’s had been classy and elegant and overwrought, but somehow still won. “I can’t believe Chuck blinged his dress out that much and still fucking won.”

“I cannot believe Gottlieb blew up like that at his girl.”

And oh yeah, won’t that play well on TV? “It wasn’t his fault. She was being a bit of a bitch.”

“After he told her her boobs were too big.”

“Dude evidently dropped out of a physics track back in college cause he didn’t have any kind of creative outlet. He’s more of an engineer than anything.” Raleigh shakes his head, remembering the meltdown Gottlieb had in Mood. His poor ex-roommate. Guy had a rough run, and then to go out like that? “His problem really was that he couldn’t find cups large enough for her, not that he hated her for being fat. I don’t think he even realized he was being an asshole to her. He was just trying to explain.”

“Well, at least he lost like a man,” Mako says primly. “Geizsler just ran away.”

“Yeah, that I don’t understand as much,” Raleigh agrees.

Hadn’t that been fun? Geiszler had been in the bottom last night. Probably got his ass reamed for the disastrous napkin dress he sent down the runway. He had laughed in Gottlieb’s face once Gottlieb got back to the lounge, calling him a bigoted fat-shamer, and it had been all Raleigh (and Herc, thank god for that man) could do to keep them from going to blows. Geiszler had been kind of unstable for the past few challenges, but Raleigh had been blocking it out.

This morning though, Geiszler, and all his stuff, had been gone. Bed made, eyeliner cleaned from the bathroom counter, gone. 

The producers hadn’t told any of them very much. Just that it was officially time to consolidate rooms. 

Hence the packing.

“I liked my dress best yesterday,” Mako says with confidence. “But they all had so much fun. My girl cried. Said her husband would have loved to see her in it.”

Gold-star wives. That had been emotional. Raleigh had really wanted to do well, especially considering Yancy’s in the Air Force and all. His woman - lost her husband in Afghanistan to a suicide bomber, three years ago - had loved her dress, even if the judges hadn’t. He’d listened to her too much, probably. “That’s what matters at the end of the day, right? That they’re happy?”

Mako nods, but her expression is far away. “It must be wonderful, to love somebody that much.”

“Their husbands are all dead.”

“Yes,” she replied serenely. “I should like to love somebody that much, someday.”

“Yeah, don’t we all?”

“Do you have anyone in your life right now?”

“Me? No. Too busy. You know how it goes, working and family and...” and Raleigh trails off. He hasn’t used his phone call yet. He only gets one, and he wants to save it for when he really needs it. But it means he hasn’t spoken to his brother and sister in almost a month. “And dating’s hard.”

Mako makes a little grunting noise. “Yes, very difficult.”

He hesitates. “No boyfriend on your end?”

“No, no. I like a certain type of man, and he is hard to find in Honolulu.”

“Oh yeah? What type is that?”

She tilts her head. “Nn, strong, tall, nice body, very respectful, the kind of man who will let me be me and who will stay him, but wants to be one with me.”

“If you find a guy like that, let me know. He sounds pretty great,” Raleigh says. _You deserve someone great,_ he wants to add. Last thing he needs to do is give Mako the impression he’s some try-hard desperate beta.

She smiles wider. “If I find that man, he will be all mine.”

 _I could be that guy for you,_ Raleigh thinks, but doesn’t say anything, and just keeps shoving crap in his bags. He’s only got another half-hour to get his crap moved. 

Chuck, of course, already emptied his closet.

Raleigh just hopes he and Aleksis can keep those two in their own fucking room.

He really doesn’t want to see either of them naked.

+++++

Their tablets are out, when they all get to the work room that morning after the wonderful real woman challenge, photos scrolling in a slow slideshow.

The hair on the back of Chuck’s neck prickles up; he feels lightheaded; there’s no sensation in his fingertips. At his side, Max starts whining, headbutting him.

These are theater photos. Him and Mum. Him and Mum and that one guy who hung around for longer than the others. Him and Mum and the cast from the production of Les Mis they did in Sydney. Spamelot in New York City. Lord of the Rings in London. The prop rooms, the sewing room, the crazy maze-like costume galleries under...

He turns it off. 

Last thing he needs to do is start thinking about that.

The anniversary of her death was yesterday. Yesterday, and he couldn’t even go get drunk, couldn’t tell Herc why he sobbed himself to sleep (and thank the lord that Herc isn’t the sort given over much to talking; just hugged him close and let him have it without any questions at all). Two years and it still hurts. Maybe it’ll always hurt.

“Before we get started,” Bruce says - and where the hell did he come from? - snapping Chuck out of his reverie.

“We’d like to address the elephant in the room,” Trevin finishes.

What, like the goddamn tablets with pictures of their families?

“As you all know, Newt Geiszler did leave the apartment building this morning, without telling any of us he was leaving.”

Oh. Right. Fuck Geiszler. Raleigh got moved into their room, his and Herc’s, because of that shit. Raleigh better not be thinking he gets to share, because if so, he’s got another thing coming.

“We have been in contact with him, and he will not be returning to the competition.”

“That’s his loss,” Bruce says. “Because this is one of our favorite challenges.”

“The Kodiak Print challenge!”

Whispers and gasps rise from the six of them who are left. The print challenge is the one where they get to make their own pattern and textile, which normally Chuck would be down with.

“Your inspiration for this challenge is family,” Bruce says.

“Our families are so important for making us who we are. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, they make us who we are,” Trevin adds, and elbows Bruce. “I’ve been lucky enough to have my brother with me, every step of the way. We’ve built an amazing brand together, and I couldn’t have done it without you, bro.”

“Asshole,” Bruce replies.

“Love you too,” Trevin grins back, and then clears his throat. “So today, we thought we’d give you guys some help in completing this challenge.”

Chuck’s stomach drops, as Max starts licking his clenched fist. Oh no. Oh shit, he’d forgotten about this thing American reality show always do. It better not be...

“So without further ado, please say hello to our special guests!”

The work room door swings open, and the first person - ginger, tall, gorgeous - who saunters in goes straight for Herc’s table. Herc promised he wasn’t seeing anybody right now, so from the way he hugs that bloke... well, it’s got to be a brother or something, right? Herc wouldn’t have lied about that...

And oh yeah, Chuck feels sick. His face is burning; he can feel it. Nobody’s out there in the hall for him. Who would have come? Dad - whoever the fucker is - doesn’t know he exists, and Mum’s family is a pack of homophobic bogans who don’t approve of his career, and it’s not like he’s had time to make friends since coming here, not that anybody’s wanted to get to know him, and before Herc he hadn’t dated anyone in like six months and...

“Hey baby.”

Chuck starts.

It’s a man. An _older_ man. One who looks disturbingly like Raleigh, with freckles and blue eyes and a body to die for under the sleek sweater and tight jeans he’s wearing, but...

“Excuse me?” Chuck asks, too off balance to tell the asshole to go fuck himself.

The bloke leans in. “You want the cameras to catch you crying in the bathroom later?”

He feels his face do something funny; Chuck’s not exactly sure what it might look like, but he hopes it’s conveying how pissed he is. He does _not_ cry (except for that one time with Herc last week but that totally doesn’t count because it was just motherfucking endorphins). “No?”

“Groovy.”

And the bloke _kisses_ him. 

Chuck doesn’t have the presence of mind to shove him off, and he really is a good kisser, so he finds himself actually grabbing onto the bloke for support. Whimpering as the bloke breaks the kiss.

“Missed you, sweetie,” the bloke says, like they’ve been together all their lives, and god _damn_ , he’s a good actor.

“I, uhh...”

“Boys, if you’re quite done, we’d like to get the challenge started,” the producer snaps.

The bloke who looks like Raleigh - but isn’t Raleigh, because Raleigh’s over there with a skinny high school girl and both of them are sort of staring at him, horrified - hooks am arm around Chuck’s waist and kisses his cheek. “Yes, ma’am,” he says cheerfully.

The producer, as usual, runs down the full instructions for the challenge prior to the cameras turning back on, the Gages twins giving the truncated version to the people at home. They have to use original artwork, work within the confines of the software (repeating patterns on a grid, no larger than 12” block), and while their “family” is there to assist, they cannot touch the tablet’s screen or give specific direction. They have two hours to finalize their design, and must stay either in the workroom or the lounge.

Thank the fickle-arse design gods for that one.

Max trotting happily in front of them. Chuck all but drags this interloper into the lounge the second Trevin says go.

His dog thinks this is some kind of game now, and apparently, so does this blond jerk, cause he’s laughing.

“Talk!” Chuck demands, slamming the door behind them. “The fuck do you think you are, touching me like...”

The bloke puts a hand up in mock surrender, and then holds it out. “Yancy Becket.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my name, kiddo. I’m Raleigh’s big brother. I’m sure you two hate each other.”

He eyes the guy more warily now. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you are pretty much my type, and my type never gets along with my brother. Tragic, really. How am I ever going to settle down someday?” 

There’s still a big grin on this Yancy’s face. Chuck reaches automatically for Max, suddenly needing something solid to touch. “You’re both gay? What, your dad touch you guys when you were little?”

Yancy’s joking demeanor just collapses, and suddenly, there’s a very serious man in front of Chuck where the frat boy just was. It’s... weird. “Look, Chuck, you were standing there for a good thirty seconds after we came in, like, completely non-responsive. My sister and I were the last two in, and there was nobody out in the hall for you. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.”

“What do you know about it?” Chuck grumbles, and yeah, okay, can he still blame it on endorphins if his eyes are stinging right now? That kiss maybe?

“I know what a guy on the verge of a panic attack looks like.” Yancy nods at Max. “And I’m willing to bet what the service dog is for.”

“So you’re, what, my fake boyfriend for the afternoon?”

“I’m sure they’d be happy to re-film it with you alone and sad.”

That, Chuck honestly considers. Yancy folds his arms, obviously expecting an answer, but Chuck’s not sure what to say.

And then Herc saves him from having to make that decision.

“Oi, Chuck, the fuck’s going on?”

He’s holding the door open, looking grouchy and protective and all papa-bear, staring holes at Yancy, and hey, maybe this could be kind of fun, right? So Chuck takes a deep breath, plasters on his favorite eat-shit smile, and steps into Yancy’s space, hugging onto his waist.

“You never said we were exclusive, Herc,” he smiles. “It’s all cold and lonely in the workroom by myself.”

Herc rolls his eyes and steps out, the door swinging shut.

“You guys dating?” Yancy asks.

“Dunno.”

“Fucking?”

Are they? Herc hasn’t put his dick in Chuck yet - says Chuck’s gotta work up to that, whatever that means, but he has let Chuck suck him off a few times. “Maybe?”

“Well, I guess that’s it’s own answer. So. What are you thinking about drawing?”

Chuck cocks his head. “You’re tryin’ awful hard to help, mate.”

“Yeah, so I’m like a pilot and we’re assholes, but Raleigh and Jaz can handle this one on their own today, you know?”

Pilot? Like, sexy military fighter pilot _piot_? Oh, Chuck has so many questions, but Yancy’s tugging him back towards the huge sectional, tablet in hand, and he suddenly wants to win this challenge. More than he’s ever wanted any of the others. 

Nobody came for him. With Mum gone, odds are pretty good nobody ever will again.

Wouldn’t it be great to win on the day when everybody else has their stupid support system - or whatever you call it - and he’s doing it on his own?

“You don’t know anything about me,” he points out as he sits down next to Yancy. Max hops up on the sofa, snuggling in with his wrinkled little face firmly tucked into Chuck’s waist.

Yancy holds out the stylus. “All that means is it’ll be really easy for us to talk. No preconceptions here, Chuck. No need to worry about what I’ll think of you for it. Whatever you wanna say, now’s the time to say it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That it is, mate.”

+++++

“So who’s the boy?” is of course the first thing Scott asks, once the nice waitress takes their taco order.

Herc resists the urge to sigh. He loves his little brother to death, but the _last_ thing he needs is some kind of inquisition. “Boy’s just a boy.”

“You looked right pissed when he was pashin’ that other bloke,” Scott observes, and nope, three trips to rehab - and all the subsequent activity in between - have never put a dent in those little brother powers of observation, have they?

“He’s... I... I don’t know, hell Scotty, what do you want me to say? Angie’s been gone for...”

“Have I ever judged your relationships off her?”

“Mum does.”

“I am not our mum, thank the sweet zombie baby Jesus.”

“I know, I know, I blew up a good thing...”

“Mate, she left you on deployment, didn’t tell you she was pregnant, hit you six years later with back child support demands, went back to court every time you got a promotion to get more out of you, and never even gave you a picture of the kid. Why shouldn’t that fuck you up?” Scott shrugs. “If jailbait boys are what make you happy, I say, there’s plenty of high schools here in Cali.”

This time, Herc does sigh. “I haven’t seen you in two years, and this is what you want to talk about?”

“Naw, sorry” - and this might be the first time he’s ever heard that word leave Scott’s mouth - “guess I’m just processing. That was some heavy shit earlier, for fabric.”

“How long you been clean this time?”

Scott doesn’t look at him. “I haven’t touched the stuff, anything, since the last arrest. I’ve been working the program, trying real hard this time.” Scott bites his lip. “I don’t wanna keep goin’ like that. I can’t.”

Interesting. “When’d you get out?”

“Eighteen months ago.”

“And you didn’t phone?”

“Didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”

It really is the most honest Herc’s heard him in a long time, and it’s actually a bit difficult to process. “It’s good to see you.”

“I never thought you’d be on some poncy reality show. With Pentecost too. What a stuck up prick that pom is.”

“Like you, I guess. I needed a change.”

“Angela?”

“You heard?” Scott nods; the waitress comes back with their drinks. 

Scott hadn’t ordered anything alcoholic, so maybe he wasn’t lying this time. Maybe he really was trying. Herc hoped so. As simple as the assignment was today, it was emotionally draining. There was too much loss in their family. Hell, he’d never even met his, and he’d always kind of hoped that someday, Angela would let him met whatever little sprog they’d made together, that the kid would seek him out, something. That’s probably lost forever now though.

He hadn’t meant to make a melancholy print. Thinking about it, though, it’s probably rather melancholy. Well, clothing is supposed to elicit an emotional response, right? Sadness is an emotion.

Not that Herc is all that worried about it.

He’s enjoying this, sitting out on the sunny patio of a Los Angeles taqueria, enjoying the rare afternoon free.

The producers were kind enough to let them go out and get lunch after they submitted their designs, along with fabric selection. Tomorrow, they’ll each receive six yards of their print. This afternoon, they get to go shopping at Mood for coordinating fabrics and start their mock-ups. And sure, it’s probably a waste of work time, this lunch break they’ve got, but Herc doesn’t care.

He’s got not intention of winning this thing. He’s happily surprised that he’s made it this far, but he doesn’t plan on winning. Why would he? He doesn’t need the hassle of running a line at his age, doesn’t need the press, doesn’t even really need the money. The kids he’s competing against need it far more; they’re hungry.

One of them - probably Chuck, Raleigh, or knowing the judges, Mako - will be taking home the prize.

Herc would rather spend some time with his brother.

“Hasn’t been so simple. We were still connected, even though she would have hated me saying that,” Herc says, and shrugs. “But enough about that. What’s going on in your life?”

“Oh, you mean besides jail?”

“Yeah,” and Herc can’t help but chuckle a little at the way Scott says it, “besides jail.”

+++++

Chuck hasn’t felt this nervous on the runway since his first time up here. When he didn’t know if they’d like his work. Before he realized Pentecost would have it out for him. 

Before he’d realized just how desperately much he needed Herc.

Today’s different, however. Today’s the day when everybody gets up here and cries about their sad life story. Aleksis, of course, is very stoic in English, but goes off on a long five-minute talk in Russian with Sasha about fuck only knows what. He spent some time in jail or something. Raleigh and Mako both lost their parents - Raleigh more recently, Mako in an earthquake at age eight. Nothing really all that sad of the Korean girl, just that she disappointed her family, choosing fashion design over her fencing scholarship to Harvard. Boo-fucking-hoo.

But right now, it’s Herc’s turn.

“Clothing can evoke sadness, Herc,” Sasha’s saying, “but I disagree that this is a sad dress. I see wistfulness. I see longing.”

“Wasn’t much longing involved.”

“But it was a loss, wasn’t it? Your wife leaving?”

“I mostly miss not seeing my kid grow up. Miss knowing who he or she was,” Herc retorts flatly. He’s clearly uncomfortable, and it’s weird for Chuck to see him this defensive. “She couldn’t even give me that much.”

“It’s never too late,” their guest judge, Tendo (again), says. “You could always reach out.”

“No, that’s impossible.”

“Hey man...”

“She died a few years back.”

“Oh, my sympathies,” Stacker says. “What happened?”

“Theater fire, or some such thing. Now did you want to ask me more about this dress or are we done?”

 _Theater fire_. It rings in Chuck’s ears. There’s no way... right? Too much of a coincidence. Too weird. Things like this don’t happen. There’s no way Herc’s ex is Mum, and even if it was, that doesn’t mean jack shit, because that doesn’t mean... no way it means Herc’s his...

No chance.

He’s exhausted; his brain isn’t functioning right; he needs Max.

Everything’s fine.

Except this does mean Chuck has to go last. His turn, he supposes, to spill his story, cry and be recognized for being brave or whatever the fuck.

But when they finally leave off badgering Herc - the producers really are pushing the human interest, aren’t they? - and come to Chuck, what’s he supposed to say? 

And he was really proud of this one, too. Evening gowns aren’t normally his thing, but here, he went all out - twisted gores in the skirt, princess seams and waist folds, pulling the abstract red and gold print he (and okay, Yancy) came up with through a smoky gray umbre silk he found in the sale room... Chuck had thought it looked rather victorious, the way it came out, which was not at all what he had been going for.

He explains all this, the technical details, but Stacker’s still staring at him.

“But what was the story here?”

“Apparently everybody here’s got dead parents, except for Herc, who’s got a dead wife, so what difference does it make if I share whatever the fuck I was thinking when I made this? Mako’s story is gonna trump mine, right?”

Stacker shifts forward in his seat; even for such a small move, Chuck can recognize it for the warning it is. “Your family story is merely intended to be a starting point. We’re not judging pain here.”

“Oi, the fuck difference does it make? I don’t have a fucking family. My mum drug me around the world for her work, no dad or siblings or friends or anything, and now she’s gone, and his fucking brother” - and he gestures across his model over at Raleigh, who very much looks like he’s trying to disappear into the stage - “pretended to be my boyfriend for your fucking cameras yesterday because nobody came.”

“You didn’t give us any contact information...”

That cuts; no, he didn’t, did he? Was this his own fault? “There’s nobody to come, Stacker. Haven’t seen any of the fuckers from mum’s side of things since the funeral. Even my gran won’t talk to me. Nobody wants the Benton family fag around. But I’m here, and I made something to be judged, so why don’t you people do your jobs and judge our work instead of our pasts?”

“Chuck,” Sasha says. “Chuck, we are not judging you as people.”

“The production team is though, isn’t it? Gonna cut up everything we say and push some storyline, so why should I say anything? You’re just gonna make me somebody else in editing. Fuck that. This is what I am, right here,” he says, and gestures at his dress again. “What else do you really need to fucking know about me?”

“Chuck, nobody’s out to get you,” Raleigh says from the other side of the stage. “Why do you have to be such a bitch about this? This isn’t easy for anybody.”

“Get stuffed, Becket,” he snaps.

“You’re not the only person up here who’s lost somebody, Chuck. But we’re here talking...”

“What if I don’t want to fucking talk about it?”

Raleigh just sighs, and turns away, and it hurts more than it should.

“If you’re quite done, Mister Benton?” Stacker asks.

“Yeah,” Chuck grumbles.

He’s going home.

He knows he’s going home.

Mum would be so ashamed of him.

+++++

Chuck is bone tired, hands aching, and all he wants to do is curl up in bed, in Herc’s arms, and go to sleep. Tomorrow’s another off day. Laundry, more testimonial stuff, no challenge. He just wants to sleep.

He made the best dress he’s ever made, and he pissed it all away by losing his temper up there.

He does not want to be judged. 

He does not want to deal with any of this.

Chuck doesn’t say anything for the cameras, either, when they get broken off to do their testimonials while the judges confer. Answers their questions as quickly, as dully, as he can. At least he’s got his pup back. Trevin handed him back Max’s lead the second he left the stage and the dog hasn’t put air between himself and Chuck’s calf since. 

“One more question,” the producer says. “Why’d you go off on Stacker, up on stage?”

“I don’t want to answer that.”

“We need some kind of answer, Chuck. We might use the footage.”

Oh shit. He’ll never get a job if that gets aired. Shit. Shit, shit... and Chuck scoops Max up, because he literally cannot think of an answer that doesn’t make him look worse than he already does.

“I, uhh, we... we had a malfunction in the fire suppression system. It’s supposed to be cued to heat, not smoke, right? But it didn’t work, and one of the machines sparked off the sawdust in the woodshop, and the whole fuckin’ theater complex went up in flames,” Chuck says. “Fires are always this, like, red glowy color in movies, but they’re mostly just black. Black air you can’t breathe.”

“You were in a fire?”

“Yeah, I uhh...” and he stops himself, realizing what’s coming out of his mouth. 

Last thing he wants to do is tell this story. He and Mum had both been down in the prop department with a couple of the younger child actors, trying to get them to remember where they’d hidden one of the costume items needed for the evening’s rehearsal. Chuck doesn’t even remember what it was now. Nothing important, but it had seemed like it at the time. Everything about that production - _Scissure_ , a new English-language opera for the new Melbourne opera house - had seemed important at the time.

The fire alarms hadn’t gone off. The lights just cut out, and the faint scent of burning was curling in through the air vents. 

He’d managed to hold on to the kid who closest to him, but the other took off. Mum told him to go, that she’d find the other one, that whatever was going on was going to be okay and she’d see him outside. It hadn’t even been urgent. Just her normal patient matter-of-factness. 

The hallway had smelled wrong, of course, and the darkness was disconcerting, but Chuck didn’t know what was going on until part of the ceiling collapsed behind him in a burst of embers. The wood shop, located behind the main stage, had blown out and caught the curtains on fire.

His first thought was going back, but there was no way; smoke was billowing in, fire licking across the ceiling. He screamed for Mum, but she didn’t answer and his lungs were already on fire and the kid was hysterical. In his memory, it seems like an hour, but it couldn’t have been that long. Every breath hurt, and words weren’t possible.

Took him twenty minutes to get them out, and that only because a firefighter had found them. 

Mum never came out. Neither did four other people.

“It was a new building,” he says. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

“So you got your start in the theater?”

“From the time I could walk,” he answers, because really, what difference does it make now? “That was where Mum was happiest, and she worked all the time, so the only time I could be with her was if I was there. I’d go straight from school to whatever theater we were working at that year, do my homework in the lighting room, stuff like that.”

“Must have meant a lot to you.”

“Theater was everything. But I always wanted to do something” - _people would appreciate me for, know me for_ , but fat chance of that happening now - “more recognizable, less theoretical.”

They don’t ask him anything else. Just let him go back to the lounge, where Herc lets Chuck lean on his shoulder until they get called back up onto the runway.

Chuck wins.

Stacker says it’s his favorite dress of the entire competition so far.

It still doesn’t really feel like a victory. 

And Herc’s wife died in a theater fire.

Yeah, nothing about today has been good.


	8. Chapter 8

"I cannot walk back in there," Mako says, when Raleigh asks her if she wants coffee. "I have no idea how to finish. I have no idea how to style her."

Herc looks at Chuck, just knowing the kid is going to make some snarky comment, yet another one about how she doesn't belong in the work room if she can't flat pattern, if all she can do is drape. _A good designer should be able to work with any silhouette_ , or whatever it was Chuck threw in her face yesterday.

Whatever. Mako didn't get the hardest option on that runway the day before yesterday with Sasha. Nope, Herc took that one himself. Not because he wanted to show off, and not even because he wanted to avoid the whining that started up the second their models walked out from behind the screen. 

Herc has no intention of winning this competition. None whatsoever. The sprogs need it more - they want it more, in their twenties and hungry for a life they'll likely never touch, but the journey towards which will land them somewhere grand nonetheless. It'd be nice to have dreams again. Herc, right now, would settle for a cold beer.

Mako's not wrong.

This challenge is horrible.

"You're going to be fine," Raleigh tells her.

She glares at him. "How? How? What the fuck were women thinking back then, letting men put them in this kind of shit? Those sleeve puffers are bigger than my head!"

"Men don't care what women wear," Raleigh tells her, that infinitely patient way of his obviously wearing thin, and sits down with the platter of eggs he's been scrambling. Herc doesn't ask before reaching for a spoonful. Nothing much to breakfast this morning - eggs and toast, carbs and protein and plenty of both. They're going to need it for today. "Herc, back me up here. Did you ever care what your wife wore?"

"I preferred her naked," Herc replies with a grin, and winks at Chuck, who's too lost in thought to even respond. He is lost in some kind of zone; Herc had to remind him to feed Max last night. "Honestly, Mako, it's not like men decide what shit you ladies want to wear. We don't care."

She waves a fork around the table. "Three men, one woman. Tell me who is most active in this industry?"

"Most men in the industry are gay," Herc says. "It's more about the clothes than the women wearing them."

"And how is this not proving my point?"

"Oh, we go with it, yeah, but we don't invent this kind of shit," Raleigh says. He's clearly torn between trying to appease his would-be girlfriend and not spend the day listening to meaningless bullshit. Herc can appreciate that. They're all on edge right now. 

"A man invented the cage crinoline," Chuck interjects. "I'm sure they built the equipment that those old corded muslins were made on for that petticoat of yours."

Mako flips him the bird and starts shoveling sugar into her coffee.

The last breakfast they'll have together, and it's like this. Herc's been in more pleasant situations in war zones.

Not that anybody's coming by their feelings dishonestly right now. This challenge... Brutal. And beyond what's normally called for.

Normally, from what Herc understands, the PPDC narrows down the finalists, the ones who get to show at LA Fashion Week, from five to three in one episode. Two contestants, gone just like that. Eleven challenges. Only eleven challenges. They were all only prepared for eleven, and then the producers dropped this twelvth one.

"Considering the number of people we've had leave this go-round, we had make some changes to the schedule," Stacker Pentecost had told them yesterday out on the runway, after Alexsis lost the commercial garment challenge. ''so we are not eliminating another contestant at this time."

And hadn't that been a relief? Herc had won that one easily - he does have far more experience in dealing with factory production than any of the sprogs. Raleigh had done fairly well too, which meant Chuck or Mako Would have been on the chopping block. 

"We instead have another challenge waiting for You," Stacker had finished.

"Right now?" Chuck had groaned.

Sasha grinned. "Right now."

And oh, Herc had gotten an advantage from his win. After the cameras caught their shock as four very-not-their-models walked out onto the runway with Sasha. After Sasha had told them that not only would they be doing another Real Woman challenge, but an avant garde one. With 19th century support garments. 

"Everything old is new again," she'd cooed. 

Herc had gotten first choice of silhouettes due to his win.

Whatever Mako thinks, he didn't take the easiest. 

Fortunately, Bruce and Trevin had been waiting in the designers' lounge to cut off the inevitable fire storm.

"We needed another episode," Trevin had said, almost apologetically.

"We also didn't have time to have it scripted, or have the proper things made up for your models, so congrats, you're going to be working with some of the board members of Costume College."

"So that's why we've got normal women instead of our models?" Mako had asked.

"Corsetry is an art, and some of the stuff out there on the runway tonight is very complex to create," Bruce replied, handing out beers. It seemed more ceremonial than anything else, but Herc was grateful for the lager. "We thought it would be easier to reach out to the ladies who already had their kit in order."

Trevin kicked his brother. "Bruce thought it would be fun."

"And I know a few of them."

"We've never done anything like this before, but we are confident we have the right group of designers for it."

"If you want to go to Fashion Week, you have to pull this off." 

The producers had not given them a rundown of the time period on offer before asking them to choose, and both Raleigh and Mako were still somewhat baffled by their options. The models had not been allowed to bring any photographs of their own gowns in for reference; the idea, Herc supposed, was for them to be working in the dark.

Still, Herc knew the time periods, who got what - Mako got the 1830s, hooped sleeve puffers and a corded petticoat, Raleigh the late 1860s with their elliptical hoops, Chuck the 1880s and an absolutely insane lobster tail bustle, and he'd picked the early 1800s himself. Seemed like the easiest one, nothing but straight, curve-killing stays with a bustle pad hooked to the back, just below the shoulder blades, but Herc knew exactly what those dresses looked like, and knew damn well there was nothing he could do with that little pad that was in any way modern, much less avant garde.

He had never much been interested in it anyway. Almost as much as he wasn't interested in going to Fashion Week. He could have picked anything, really, and bombed it. Maybe he was just being lazy.

"How do you feel about yours, Herc?" Raleigh asks.

"I thought I might mix it up, do separates. Nice Watteau back on a low high blouse or something," Herc says with a shrug. It hadn't worked out quite the way he wanted, but at least he'd have a finished garment on his model today. They were in the workroom until one AM this morning. Show today. Fucking insane schedule for an avant garde challenge. "Skinny pant."

"That doesn't sound good at all," Chuck grumbles.

"You're just pissed off cause your girl wouldn't let you chop up her bustle," Herc tells him.

"The producers won't let me chop up the bustle," Chuck retorts, and yeah, that rule was the biggest pain of them all. Support garment has to sit where it's meant to sit on the body, no alterations or adjustments allowed. The costumer ladies all brought a number of petticoats with them, which were allowed to be used and temporarily tacked up for length. Corset were mandatory. At least the producers made a good effort to find the thinnest costumer models they could - adding a plus-size model on top of this already insane situation might have done somebody in.

Raleigh snorts. "I think I heard her threaten your life if you wrecked it."

"Fuck that fucking thing. What woman wanted her arse to look that big anyway?" 

Mako's eating faster than Herc's ever seen her eat. Chuck is a ball of anger over the fact that somebody might figure out that he knows what he's doing with that bustle skirt - kid's got some kind of theatrical background, from what Herc's been able to gather, even if he's been real short on the details. He looks to Raleigh instead.

"Figure out how to get the skirt to hang right?"

"Fuck if I know. Referenced her petticoats for a pattern, but the gores don't turn out right. Try to pleat it, doesn't hang right. I have no idea what I'm going to do today."

"Well, you've still got three hours."

"I know. Fuck."

"At least the budget was $600," Mako says, words still heavy. She's struggling with the sleeves. Last night, they were still sitting on her work table, undone. Undergarments were made to support a finished shape, after all, and there's only so far the finished dress can be wrested from that without disaster. 

"Avant garde with a fucking Victorian silhouette. Who's brilliant idea was that?" Chuck asks of nobody in particular. "This shit was abandoned for a fucking reason."

"You all need to eat," Herc says, and pushes back from the table, his own plate clean "We have to leave in ten minutes."

He's gonna miss these kids, but he really isn't going to miss the whining.

He needs to finish packing.

And he's just shoving the last of his henleys into his suitcase when Chuck stomps into their room and kicks the door shut behind him. Boy's like a grumpy little thunderstorm when he wants to be, emotion just rolling off of him, and while Herc thinks he'd never quite learn what to do with it, he's not sure what he's going to do without it. Four weeks, and he feels like he's known this boy all his life. Like he's finally found his soulmate, or whatever the fucking cliche is.

"Will I see you again?" Chuck asks quietly, subdued, sitting on the edge of the bed they've been sharing, Max dutifully curling up at his feet.

"You said you were living here in LA, yeah?"

"Yeah," Chuck replies, and it sounds expectant.

Herc, truthfully, doesn't rightly know what to do with the boy. Sure, he's beautiful and smart and sexy and, well, perfect really, but he's young enough to be Herc's son. He's got his whole future ahead of him. So many dresses to design. So much of his personal story yet to write.

Chuck's likely not ready for a real relationship.

Herc's too old to play games.

"Would you like me to phone you, later?"

"Would you like to keep fucking me?"

Herc snorts. "Haven't fucked you yet, boy," he says, and stands up, walking over. He takes a knee on the bedspread beside Chuck, one hand on his chest. "Not properly."

Chuck swallows. "Probably shouldn't right now."

"Shh," Herc says, pushing him down, smiling at the sight. "I reckon I could get used to seeing you on your back."

"You're old enough to be m-my dad," Chuck whispers, like this has just occured to him, and shit, is he looking for a way out? Maybe Herc misread this entire thing, and this is Chuck asking him _not_ to speak to him again.

"Your dad's a wanker, mate," Herc says, and pulls back again. Chuck's probably trying to tell him it's over. "Isn't that what you said?"

Chuck's quiet. "Never met him. Left my mum before he was born."

"His loss," Herc says.

"Herc, I..."

"What?"

"Just, uhh, thanks. For, uhh, bunking with me and all."

"Pretty boy in my bed? Pleasure was all mine, honey," he says, and then kicks himself. That probably sounded creepy.

"I've got...panic attack problems, anxiety..."

"You've got PTSD," Herc interrupts, not really thinking about it, and goes intot he little attached bathroom from his shaving kit.

"Huh?"

"Figured it out a while back," he calls back. "Knew guys with it in Afghanistan. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Raleigh's fucking brother said the same thing," Chuck grumbles, and he's picking at a callous on his hand. "Fucking sucks."

"Mind if I ask what's it from?" Herc asks

"Remember that theater fire in Sydney a few years back? It was, uhh, that. Mum died. I didn't. Fucked me up, I guess."

Herc is glad he's not in the same room with Chuck.

He's extremely glad the boy can't see his face right now.

Angela died in that fire.

Angela was the _only_ woman who died in that fire. 

And he hadn't even known...hadn't bothered to ask, to look, to _wonder_ , if...

Angela's baby had never really been his. Not really, but if Chuck was...

Jesus fuck.

 _Fuck_.

 _At least the boy doesn't want you,_ Herc told himself. Not as a lover or a father, it seemed. 

"Herc?"

Chuck's in the doorway. Right within reach. He's so painfully gorgeous, so much of what Herc has always, always wanted... _and it's probably because he's fifty percent you, you sick fuck_.

He should tell him.

Not today, though. Not today. Today of all days.

"We should go. Van's gonna be coming soon."

There's an expression on Chuck's face that Herc can't quite read, but then, the boy was never really his to care about, now was he?

"Yeah, I reckon," Chuck agrees.

Herc just hopes that when he comes back to the room, he comes back alone.

So much for dreams.

+++++

Watching the runway live is both more and less exciting than watching it on TV. No music, no grand production values, but at the same time, live, it's just the clothes and the way they move and the soft sounds of the judges making notes on their photo pages.

Raleigh is entranced.

He's never been a huge fan of avant garde anything - except for the one time he got to see a show in Paris at Fashion Week, it's always seemed a bit try-hard to him. He is quite proud of what he ended up doing, how it looks.

So yeah, he might have shredded his skirt. Woven parts of it through the cage crinoline and tangled it together, dress blurring with the steel hoops. It moves lovely, and he can already hear what he's going to say to the cameras later. _I though it was beautiful and terrible, like a shipwreck..._

Chuck's is quite nice too, that touch of theatrical he has in all his work both exaggerated and restrained, a long train sweeping the runway with surprising fluidity, the angles of the structured bodice at total odds with that flow. Herc's been horribly distracted by something all morning, bitter and cranky, and it shows in the last minute adjustments he made to his separates. It's an interesting thing he did with his little pad, but it's too commercial, not imaginative enough at all. Mako just stares up at hers with bleary eyes; it turned out quite nice, some last minute touches turning the sweep of her ridiculous sleeves upwards instead of downwards, that huge skirt held out with deep box pleats and inlaid streaks of electric blue in the charcoal silk she chose. Raleigh loves her color choices, but he knows he doesn't have the right words to tell her what that is.

In fact, he thinks he might be in love. Period, dot, end of story.

When they're all called back up on the runway for one final critique, even as exhausted as she is, Mako gives a moving speech about what design means to her, her escape from the ugliness of her childhood, rising above her family's indifference and her parents' death on the revenge of her creativity.

Raleigh had nothing so eloquent to say. Just that he has dreams for his life, things he wants to do, an existence he wants. He doesn't mention marriage - doesn't trust himself right now. 

Chuck talks about ambition.

Herc says nothing.

"I'm not going to defend it," he says. "It's shit, we all know it."

"It was looking so good yesterday," Bruce says from his own judges' chair. "What happened?"

"I dunno. Got pissed at it."

"And you couldn't pull it out, make it work, for the final stage of this competition?" Stacker says in that way on his that makes you want to crawl under a rock and die. 

Herc just sighs.

"Everyone has dreams, Herc," Sasha says. "You've done so well in this competition, and now you have nothing? What is it you came here for?"

"It's been a long time for me, Sasha. Wanted to see if there was anything left in here to wake up."

Sasha cocks her head. "And was there?"

Herc looks at his garment. Back to her. "Reckon it might be a little too late, isn't it?"

+++++

After the silence and the stress of the morning, the way Herc shut down on him whne Chuck was desperately trying to find a way to hold on to whatever it was that he at least _believed_ was growing between him, it didn't surprise him that Herc was the one not moving on to Fashion Week.

He had at least hoped that Herc would offer something, leave something. A phone number or an email or something like that.

The bed was neatly made when he got back to the room, Herc's bags gone, no trace of the older man at all. Like he'd never been.

Max starts whining, and Chuck picks him up, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He's tired and angry and elated and confused and a bunch of other things.

He should be happy he's going to Fashion Week. One step closer to what he wants. One step closer to a dream.

All he can think about is Herc telling Sasha he didn't have any dreams of his own left. And Chuck wants to be pissed about that, he really does - what kind of worthless pussy doesn't want anything? - but it just makes him sad. 

Makes him wonder.

But he's going to Fashion Week. He needs to worry about his collection, what he's going to do, how he's going to do it. If Herc's enough of an asshole to walk away without so much as a goodbye - he hadn't even waited in the lounge to give them all hugs or whatever, like everyone else had - then fuck him.

_If only._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer died, and I've been drowning in projects. Sorry...


	9. Chapter 9

"So are you watching the show?"

Bruce at least waited to ask him that until after the cameras were off. Typically, Chuck knows, the PPDC likes to do some little piece involving the families or friends or significant others or whatever when they come out for the project inspections. Three months down, one to go until Fashion Week, and they finally got out to him.

Yancy, however, wasn't around to cover for him this time. And things haven't exactly gotten better on the relationship front. Chuck spends most of his time in his studio anyway, which doesn't much lend itself to meeting people, and to try and start something up when he has the deadline of his life bearing down... Just seems idiotic.

At least, that's what he's telling himself.

It has nothing at all to do with anything - or anyone - else.

The Gages were nice enough to not press the issue. The producer who tagged along had given Chuck some crap about it - _we specifically set this up with you ahead of time with the expectation you'd have family here!_ \- but Trevin had told her to take a hike, and they took him out for dinner instead. Nothing fancy, but it's been so long that Chuck's been anywhere but his work table that the atmosphere of the little gastropub is sort of uncomfortable.

"No," he tells them, thumbing a bit of salt off the rim of his glass, and it's the truth. "Why would I want to distract myself with all that bullshit?" That's only half a lie.

"That's probably for the best," Bruce says.

"They aren't exactly painting you in the best light."

"Which is my fault," he grumbles. Fuck, he had embarassed himself, hadn't he? Horrible of him. He realized how bad he'd gotten almost as soon as he got himself a good night's sleep. It's an uncomfortable feeling, and he doesn't like it, and if he loses this competition, it's entirely likely he'll have to go to Europe to find work.

"They didn't include that entire meltdown from team day," Trevin says. "If that helps."

"Mostly because it's pretty clear that Herc fucked you in the bathroom," Bruce follows.

"No, it's because the producers figured out he was having anxiety attacks and didn't want to get sued."

"Great." Like that makes it any better. "I'm the season's villain, aren't I?"

They don't say anything, which is as much confirmation as he can stomach.

"Have you heard from..."

If there's anything he wants to talk about less than the show, it's _this_. And Chuck wishes he hadn't agreed to come out for food with the twins at all. It had just been a while since he'd fed himself anything other than take-out and Hot Pockets.

They're both looking at him, though, clearly expecting an answer. Chuck reaches down to pet Max. "Not a chance, mate. Why'd I want to hear from him?"

They give each other one of those twin looks. Bruce speaks first.

"So you didn't see the episode with the prints?"

"The one that I won?"

"That very one." 

"Why would I need to watch everybody else fail?"

"Not even for Herc?"

Shit. Was he that obvious about it during filming? He hadn't been trying to be obvious about it - contrary to what everybody seems to think about him, he's really quite a private person. All the flamboyant shit he puts out there is the shit that doesn't matter. What he was doing with Herc had been private - real. Or at least, he'd thought at the time. 

That's what he gets for letting somebody in.

Bruce sighs. "Chuck, we both think you're a great designer."

"We'd hire you on as a associate if that wasn't explicitly banned in our contracts."

The words, so nicely delivered, cut more than they're probably supposed to. "So what? I'm gonna win and I won't need it."

"That's what we worry about with you."

"You need somebody around."

Chuck shrugs, unease setting in. What does that have to do with the print challenge? Or Herc? "Mates, if you've got something to say, just say it."

"You should call him."

"Well he didn't leave me his bloody phone number, now did he?"

"We could get it for you if you..."

"I don't," he says, brusque as he can, and shakes out his menu. "Mind if I get a steak?"

"Get wahtever you want, Chuck," Trevin says lightly. "It's all on us."

Three hours later, stomach full but heart heavy, Chuck finally gets back to his little studio. 

Technically, it should just be his work studio, but he's not the only person who sleeps in the warehouse and the air con isn't that bad. He can fit a little fridge under one of his work tables, and there's a bathroom with showers on the fist floor. Place even has internet connections - when one can actually afford it - so right now, he can use his battered old laptop. He built the thing himself, back in middle school when he was more interested in that stuff. He couldn't see Mum if he wasn't at the theater, though. Garment construction is just as fascinating, in a lot of ways.

Max greets him at the door, as he gets the padlock off the slider, and he re-locks it on the inside. "Hey boy," he says, kneeling. "Didn't save you any dinner but you're okay, huh?"

His service dog pants happily, and licks at his fingers. 

"At least you're still here, huh?"

The Gages hadn't had much bad to say about his collection. Well, they said they liked it; the color story, the forms, his day wear. He hasn't got a damn clue what to do about his evening gown, no idea how to open the show, and it's been more of a slog than it normally is. The Gages picked up immediately that he didn't have a theme, which is a problem, and that he seems rather unfocused, which really is a symptom of not having a theme.

They said he needs to both push himself further, and edit more.

Chuck is really fucking sick of that word. _Edit_. Like he doesn't do enough of that already. Every goddamn day of his life is about _editing_ himself. Nobody's ever understood, so that's what he's left with. When he puts a collection out on the runway for the first time, he wants it to be magical. He wants it to be that real, true, full fantasy that a runway is supposed to be.

He doesn't know why they even bothered to give him real pointers, act like they care. Mako's going to win. No doubt about it. 

Twenty-nine days to go. He needs to be working.

Tonight, however, Chuck's pretty sure if he picks up a pair of scissors, he's going to destroy every garment in his studio. He feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin.

Instead, he rolls his futon back out (and he really hopes the cameras couldn't figure out that he's been sleeping here; he tried to hide everything well enough), pulls out his laptop, and goes to the PPDC site.

Max curls up next to him. And Chuck pulls up the most recent episode. Last night.

The print challenge.

Goddamn.

Chuck watches it. Through the first two commercial breaks on the stream, risking another just to avoid having to watch Yancy be sweet with him. The one thing that gets him though is how much Herc there is in this epsiode. Maybe it's because there's just so few of them left, they had no choice but to feature the bloke. 

And what they're showing is him talking to Trevin.

"Never had much luck with family, so I can't say I'm fond of the challenge," Herc's saying. 

"Oh?"

"Wife walked on on me when she was pregnant. Didn't tell me, either. Must have really pissed her off with that last deployment."

"You never tried to reconcile?"

"Divorce papers were finalized, and she didn't tell me about the sprog until years later. Wouldn't have signed those damn papers if I'd known. Might have fought a little harder."

"Well, regret doesn't make for a very good theme for a look. It's never too late."

"Sometimes it is. She died on this day, couple years back. I didn't find out about that, either. We did all our communicating through the child support checks."

"Must have been hard."

Herc, on the screen, brushes it off. "I just hope the sprog's okay. Must have been hard on them, losing their mum."

Chuck stares at the screen. Rewatches it. Tries to remember the date this was filmed. The print challenge, the print challenge...

It's right there, but he can't reach it.

He doesn't go to sleep that that night. Instead, he stays up and watches every episode, start to finish, and by seven AM the next morning, Chuck's totally convinced of two things:

He actually is an irredemable asshole.

Herc's the best thing that's ever happened to him - maybe the best thing that will ever happen to him - But there's no way that bloke deserves to be stuck with somebody as big of a jerk as him.

Chuck really does consider ripping up everything in his studio and dropping out of the stupid competition. He's probably wrecked his career with this show, Leaving working for himself the only real option, so if he backs out, that's it. 

He really considers it.

But he's not one to just give up like that. And if he's going to go out, he'd like to prove to himself that he's capable of doing something beautiful for a change.

He still doesn't have a theme though, and he doesn't have much time to figure it out.

+++++

"Last episode's on!" Jaz yells from the living room for the third time in ten minutes. "Raleigh, get in here before we're on, jesus!"

Biting off the thread on the hem he's working on, Raleigh makes sure to lock his work room - his bedroom, actually, and he's been sleeping on the couch for the past four months - on his way out. He plops down in the worn armchair with his work as Yancy brings another six-pack in from the kitchen for distribution to the crowd.

Raleigh'll be glad when this show's over.

His brother started up squadron viewing parties for this shit - they've got ten people over right now. Yancy never misses a chance to (in his words) educate the unit on gay culture. Like Yancy ever gave a crap about clothes. Really, Raleigh knows his big brother is just proud of him, and pilots? Yeah, they never miss an opportunity to hang out and get drunk. 

They've invented a whole host of drinking games over the course of this season, and Raleigh's kind of surprised to see them all so calm right now. Normally, they're all waiting for the next ridiculously bitchy thing to leave Chuck's mouth. 

Raleigh used to think that al that crap on reality shows was just tricky editing. But no, if anything, the show went out of its way to downplay Chuck's psychotic behavior. And while Raleigh's not real happy with the way he came across as the irritated guy the first few episodes, he thinks it's all been mostly fair. 

He wonders how much influence the Gages have on the final edits. They can be hard-asses sometimes, but they always come across as super kind and supportive on the show.

"So what'd I miss?" he asks nobody in particular.

"Chuck," Yancy says, and points. "I am so glad you're not doing this starving artist crap, kiddo. I like you at home, where I can feed you."

"He looks really lonely,"Jaz says from where she's tucked into their brother's side, and glares at Yancy. "You should have gone out."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure the commander would have been happy to switch my Red Flag school dates so I could play fake boyfriends with some Aussie brat on TV," Yancy grumbles, and throws a handful of popcorn at her.

"Probably would have gotten you laid for a change," the squadron training officer, a younger major, retorts from the floor.

"Missing training for sex is so legit," one of the other captains says.

"Guys, seriously," Yancy says. "It's true on our end too. Never stick your dick in crazy."

"Jaz, he's not the easiest person to be around," Raleigh tells her, exchanging a look with his brother over the top of her head. The Gages did call, and Yancy did want to go, but that figher jet school was more important to Yancy's career, and it was damn hard to get a slot these days, Yancy had said. He looks guilty as hell about it, though. That print challenge episode had been hard to watch, Yancy laying it on thicker than Raleigh's ever seen him do in real life, and Chuck soaking it up. "He's a complete brat, actually."

"Where's his boyfriend? The hot old guy?" she asks.

"I don't know," Raleigh admits. He'd expected Herc to show up on this episode - Yancy and him had talked about it. He was _sure_ Herc would be there, way those two carried on during filming. 

"You can see why he's such an asshole," one of Yancy's buddies says, and points at a back corner of Chuck's studio. "Dude's sleeping there. Didn't hide his bedroll good enough."

"Why does he have a dog? He can't afford an apartment but he's got a dog?" The training officer asks, and Yancy hands him a beer.

"Can we please just skip this crap? Go back to football until this is over or something?"

"You just want to see your girlfriend," Jaz teases.

And, as if right on cue, Raleigh's phone buzzes on the coffee table. 

Mako.

_Chuck's looks are desperate. Gonna kick your asses in LA._

He smiles and texts her back. _Not a chance, Mori._

_How is the family?_

_Watching. Squadron's here again. Who do you think will be up next, u or me?_

_BRB eating_

Raleigh's got no idea what's going on with him. Her. THem. If there is a them. If there can be. They did exchange numbers before leaving the competition apartments, and now, they talk evey day. They agreed; no pictures of their looks, no talk about the competition at all, but they have both been watching the show. So what if they kind of watch it together via text?

As much as he really does want to win this thing, he is looking forward to seeing her next week. Seems crazy it's been so long since he last saw her.

"Oh, no wonder they put Chuck's first," Jaz exclaims as it comes back off commercial with a shot of the Gages landing their private jet at Anchorage. "They didn't even do the family dinner thing!"

"Can we please stop talking about Chuck?" Raleigh groans. That fucking kid, seriously.

Even after almost an entire season, it's weird seeing himself on TV. But this is even weirder, because it's not the work room, some foreign place, but their own house with him behind the door. Welcoming the Gages in. Showing them his own private workspace, complete with his great-grandma's 1930 Singer Featherweight he perfers to his newer Viking machine. Having Jaz model one of his looks for him - she really wanted to do it, and the producers like the idea, but Raleigh will be _damned_ if she ever gets anywhere near the modeling world. All the pointers they give him.

His phone buzzes. 

_I love what you're doing! You do the best structured wool, I am in awe_

He texts her back a couple of emoji.

He's nervous to see what she's doing.

She is probably going to kick his ass - she's much more of a visionary than he is, and he's okay with admitting that to himself. His work is impeccable, however, and his outerwear is still the best in the competition, so maybe that'll give him some pointers.

"Aww," one of Yancy's squadronmates says, cracking yet another beer. "You guys all look so cute together."

"One big happy family," Yancy replies serenely.

Onscreen, the Gages are passing the salad condiments and asking Yancy and Jaz how they feel about what their brother has accomplished. Jaz is beaming, Yancy is bullshitting about how he knew his brother was going to be a fashion designer the first time they went to Paris. Yeah, right; Raleigh was six months old on his first trip to Paris, but it does make a good story. It's a nice moment though. The whole family. Together. Like nothing could ever break them apart.

But then, there's a reason why Raleigh decided on the glacier theme for his show. The way the ice flows down the mountain, how eternal it seems until that moment when it shatters into the ocean, when it break apart into something new. 

This happy thing the three of them have managed to savage from the loss of their parents will be ending soon. Jaz goes off to college next month. Yancy got his follow-on PCS to Andrews AFB in DC, effective this fall. Raleigh... Raleigh's got the world open in front of him, and he's starting to look forward to it. 

There are, after all, people to look forward to being with.

It's going to be really good to have this show over with.

It's going to be good to see Mako again.

And, of course, a hundred thousand dollars would be fucking nice.

+++++

Herc takes the furthest seat they'll let him, far back from the runway, butterflies boiling in his stomach. It's not that he doesn't want to experience this. He just doesn't want to be spotted by the sprog.

At least he didn't have to stay at the contestant hotel. Being local, he told them he'd just drive from home, which is exactly what he's done. Some of the others have tried to talk to him, but he's not interested in all that. He put way too much of himself into this show, and his final words in the workroom, aired two weeks ago, are still haunting him.

_I don't regret a thing. It was never really about winning. I'll get to see a few of my dresses in production, and I met so many great people. Some really beautiful people._

He'd almost said _my son_ , but kept himself from letting that out. Beautiful people. That was still Chuck. 

And what an asshole he was. He'd seen the episode where the Gages checked in on the kid. Sad, seeing him living like that, and worse, because Herc had always promised himself that if he ever had the chance to meet whatever little life he and Angie had made together, he would reach out. If he was welcome. Chuck hadn't seemed to want anything from him, in the end. He can't enjoy being that alone.

(If there was any doubt of who the kid is, too, that was destroyed by the print challenge. Chuck had had photos of Angie on his tablet.) 

THe lights dim and warm up, then dim again, and Sasha is striding out on the runway, hair bound up in a high knot, leather dress clinging in all the right places.

"Hello, and welcome to the fifth season of the Pan Pacific Design Competition. Have we enjoyed the show so far? Are we ready for the live finale?"

The crowd cheers. Herc settles back.

Hopefully, when this is all done, he can catch up with Chuck.

Tell the kid... Something.


	10. Chapter 10

   
 These live finales are a bitch and a half.  
   
Bruce isn't exactly down with the entire concept, but then, Stacker did talk the network out of engaging in that pathetic trope of doing conversations with the contestants in between overpriced commercial breaks.  Stacker likes his show to be all about the fashion.  It's one of the only reason Bruce and Trevin agreed to put their names - and Romeo Blue - behind this.  
   
 _We're seeking the air of authenticity_.  
   
Not that it's all that authentic.  
   
Chuck's bouncing in his boots, fussing over last minute details on the models as the stage manage tries to tell him it's sixty seconds to his introduction and Trevin tries to tell him to calm the fuck down.  Mako's on her knees, desperately working to repair a hem, seven minutes before she's due to go up.  And Raleigh... well, Raleigh's helping her.  He's going last, he'd said, when Bruce and the cameraman had asked him about it.  
   
"It is a competition," Bruce had said.  
   
"Her dress deserves to look right.  I don't see why you should be giving me shit for that," Raleigh had replied, without so much as glancing up.  
   
He's fast with a needle.  Bruce has to give him that.  And the producer had likely been able to cut out the bit about the judging.  
   
Because while this show may be authentic enough by reality standards, it's hardly _honest_.  The judging's already taken place.  
   
The entire judging contingent - Stacker, Sasha, Tendo, Bruce and Trevin - got to review every outfit up close, personal, in great detail, yesterday afternoon after rehearsals.  The finalists themselves weren't around for that.  Intentionally.  They never are.  There are no further tweaks allowed the day of the show, except, of course, for things like Mako's busted hem, but they don't tell them why.  
   
The finalists always get sent off to do interviews for Vogue, and the judges get to fight.  
   
Technically, Bruce and Trevin aren't there to judge the fashion.  They don't weigh in on any of the other competitions.  They're there as the mentors, the people who can best speak to the craftsmanship and business acumen of the contestants.  The first year, the guy who won the money ended up doing nothing with it, never even tried to launch his own line but did manage to get himself addicted to coke, and is still up in some treatment facility in Alaska.  Poor Sergio.  Stacker didn't want that to happen again.   _If I'm goin to lend my support to something, I want it to succeed._  
   
Bruce knows that he's only supposed to give his opinion on the business end of things.  
   
"I'm going with Chuck," Bruce had said, during their judging review.  "Boy's worked hard all season, grown incredibly as a designer, and look at what he's given us here.  It's sublime."  
   
"You're only saying that because he's been your favorite all season," Stacker pointed out.  
   
"I've liked him all season because of his design."  
   
"Well, we can't give it to Chuck.  Boy spent half the season fucking one of the other contestants, in violation of the rules, let me remind you all," Stacker replied.  "Plus he had one of the worst attitudes I have ever seen.  I am not rewarding that kind of behavior.  This might be a reality show, but at the end of the day, it's our industry."  
   
Bruce shook his head.  "He was acting like that because you had it out for him, Stacks."  
   
"I had it out for him because that's how he acted."  
   
"Boy's got severe PTSD issues.  Remember the dog?"  
   
"If he can't function as a business professional, he can't function.  Doesn't matter what the reason is."  
   
"Bruce and I are voting Chuck," Trevin had said.  "Hands down, that's who we're going with."  
   
"He violated the rules..."  
   
"You can't prove that."  
   
"Which is why he was allowed to move forward.  But we all know it was happening, and I will not consider him for the prize.  Is that understood?"  
   
"Can you justify that based on his work?"  Trevin brandished Chuck's opening dress.  Not his evening gown, which was beautiful, but the opening look; a fit and flare with long sleeves and a scandalously short skirt, color blocked in flowing organic lines, a neckline that was both totally unique and incredibly flattering.  "Tell me this isn't the best look of the entire season."  
   
"It looks melancholy to me.  Everything is downturned, muted, his entire collection... who uses a cloudy sunrise as their palette inspiration?" Stacker pointed to the notes on the board, the forms the contestants had to submit on their design process, their fabric choices, their methods. "It's damned depressing, is what it is."  
   
"Melancholy is beautiful.  This is beautiful dress."  
   
"Would you wear this look?"  
   
"Yes."  
   
"It would look hideous on your, my dear."  
   
The stage manager practically has to propel that kid out of stage.  He looks nervous as hell, his models itching to go, but at least his voice doesn't shake when he talks.  
   
"I grew up all over the world, but I never forgot the sunrises we have back home, at my gran's bush house up near Darwin.  I wanted to capture that.  I hope you enjoy."  
   
Now, Trevin is standing with Chuck as they watch the show on one of the backstage monitors.  He's got an arm around the kid's shoulders; Chuck's cuddled in a bit more than he probably means to be.  Max is right there, in a little glittery gold bowtie, looking very proud of himself.  It's a nice show.  The music Mako helped Chuck pick out is perfect - because Sasha was right, it is bit melancholy.  In a beautiful way, though.  Not so much like a sunrise.  If anything, it reminds Bruce of when the curtains fall on a ballet.  
   
But he doesn't have time to focus on that, because Mako's only got this and a two minute commercial break, and then it'll be her turn to be out there, and she's _flying_ around back stage.  
   
At least Raleigh's gotten that hem back into shape for her, and from the way she's watching him as he stops her, brings her over to show her, Bruce wonders if she's figured out her supposed new gay bestie is a straight guy with a serious crush on her.  Like it wasn't obvious as hell.  
   
(This season's been ridiculous.  Everybody fucking everybody.  They've never had this much trouble before.  Maybe they should move to a house from the hotel, like the network keeps saying.  Putting everybody in open room sleeping arrangements would stop some of that, wouldn't it?)  
   
Despite how much Mako's grown, though, how her skills have come along, how fucking gorgeous this collection she put together really is, Bruce just can't justify letting her have this.  
   
"You can't give it to Mako," Trevin had said, once Stacker finally killed the discussion on Chuck, and held up one of her shots.  It was her evening gown. Up close, yes, there were issues.  The hem was completely fucked.  That hem Raleigh was helping her fix.  "Her construction is shoddy."  
   
"Not every piece is that bad," Stacker sighed.  
   
"Because she hired a seamstress to help her on some of these."  
   
"That's not against the rules."  
   
"It is against spirit of competition," Sasha interjected, sorting her own stack of photos out in front of her with long red fingernails.  "And editing of show makes it look like you have hard-on for her.  Entire season."  
   
"Her work is raw joy.  She's the most gifted of the three designers we have here."  
   
"She is artist, I agree,"  Sasha said, and narrowed her eyes.  "Is she businesswoman?"  
   
Stacker shook his head.  "I cannot see this talent squashed."  
   
Bruce cleared his throat.  "Mako can't execute her own designs.  I say she's out."  
   
"I will not..."  
   
"She needs more time, Stacker," Tendo finally said, from the far side of the table.  While Tamsin Sevier was officially the third judge for the final runway, she was mostly only there for star power, and hadn't been invited to the review meeting at all.  Tendo, last year's winner, had been given that honor instead.  He hadn't said much during the entire meeting.  That was the first time he spoke up.  "She needs to develop.  If you give her this money, her career would implode before it even starts.  You're going to ruin her if you do this."  
   
When she goes out, she bows to the judges, the maxi dress she designed herself flowing effortlessly.  
   
"I took my inspiration from the streets of Honolulu.  Not just the flowers and beach, but the hard edge of the buildings and rocks," she says, and bows again.  "I hope you enjoy."  
   
Hers is much more urban, twisting that vintage Hawaii vibe into something completely unique, pulling it away from the beach - just like she said - and out into something that could easily be worn in Hong Kong or Tokyo or New York.  Timeless and innovative.  Incredible use of color, especially that thematic neon blue she's woven in, the same color as the highlights in her hair.

She walks the runway with her muse model proudly, the dress she designed for herself the most unobtrusive thing Bruce has seen her wear all season.

"You ready?" Trevin asks Raleigh, who's got his eyes glued to the monitor.

The Alaskan glances over at his first model, the show-opening dress done in a rayon plaid that shouldn't work, but somehow does.

"I've got no idea what to say out there."  
   
"What about Raleigh?" Trevin had said loudly at long last, finally cutting off the bullshit argument about who was a bigger disaster, Mako or Chuck.  He had held up the final shot of Raleigh's evening gown.  It was a mixed media piece, artfully stained reindeer leather and heavy silk, texture manipulated as it flowed from bodice to skirt.  Certainly the most interesting thing he has done all season, but then, that's a bit of a problem too.  "He has been rock solid through this entire competition.  Good tailoring, good teamsmanship, good attitude.  He is motivated to make a career out of this.  He'd go the furthest, do the most, with the prize."  
   
"He is very ready to wear," Stacker agreed.  "But this is not about commercial realities, but inspiration on the runway.  Mako clearly excels in that category."  
   
"Runway is useless if design cannot be sold," Sasha replied in that prim way of hers.  "He can sell design.  Here, Russia, many places in Europe..."  
   
"I don't give a flying fuck about Europe," Stacker growled.  
   
"I vote for Raleigh.  Not by default, but because he is best candidate," Sasha said.  "I am ordering this dress for Oscars this year.  This will happen.  I love his show."  
   
"Tendo?"  
   
"Raleigh.  He's got the most overall potential."  
   
"Bruce?"  
   
Bruce had stalled for a moment, drinking his coffee.  There were pros and cons to all of them.  It was like that every year.  And worse, he liked all the finalists.  That always made it harder, knowing you were crushing somebody's dream, somebody you liked.  But dreams weren't livable realities; pragmatism had to be in the driver's seat.  "I think you're being an asshole for no reason about Chuck, Stacks, but I'd rather Raleigh over Mako."  
   
"Trevin?"  
   
"Chuck."  
   
"Trev..."  
   
"Fuck your British bullshit.  This doesn't have to be anonymous, so me telling you what I think is inconsequential.  The boy deserves it."  
   
"Mako deserves it."  
   
"If Raleigh hadn't helped her finish her gown in the first two challenges, she wouldn't have made it past week three.  You weren't there, so you didn't see it, but that's the hard truth here Stacks."  
   
"I am not judging this competition on what happens in the workro..."  
   
"Raleigh is winner," Sasha said, loudly, up over the top of the rising voices.  "Raleigh is season seven winner.  That is final decision."  
   
"Sasha," Stacker growled, "this is my show."  
   
"Raleigh has best portfolio.  Raleigh did best work overall.  Raleigh has best future at this point in life."  
   
"This is not your decision."  
   
"Like hell, Stacker," Sasha replied, and smiled.

Sasha always gets what Sasha wants.  For as long as Bruce has known her.

And, considering the determination Bruce sees in Raleigh as the stage manager pushes him out onto the runway - no fear, like Chuck had, no naïve confidence, like Mako - well, Bruce thinks they made the right decision.

"Thank you all for coming tonight.  My name's Raleigh Becket, and my collection is called the Drift."

In a few minutes, when Raleigh’s runway is down, they’ll break out, do a few candid interviews with the other contestants while things get reset for the final judging. Stacker and Sasha will go through their pre-arranged talking points, pretend to deliberate, and Bruce may or may not be asked for input.

It’ll come down to the wire. The final thirty seconds of this live broadcast. And then they’ll hand Raleigh that prize. And he’ll take his hundred grand and Brother sewing studio and year-long contract with Loreal and do something *amazing* with it.

But Bruce would be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that he’s almost more excited to see what Chuck does. What Mako does. Where they go from here.

And Trevin’s already put a call into their lawyer.

There has to be a way for them to bring Chuck on board. 

Stacker’s probably already doing that same shit with Mako, right?

+++++

It's almost two AM by the time Chuck's finally cleared to leave the pavilion.  All he wants to do is go to sleep.  Go back to his studio and figure out what he's going to do with his life now that he's blown everything to hell.  Max is almost as tired as he is, stumbling a bit as he trundles obediently along next to Chuck's thigh.  Poor boy.  He's been through a lot with this competition.

"Hey!" Raleigh calls, holding up a hand.  His free hand.

Chuck blanches, but stops anyway.  He was really hoping to avoid this.

Raleigh, that wanker, with his arm around Mako's shoulder, Mako beaming like she's won something.  Which she has.  The effusive praise of some of the industry's biggest names, a bloke who look like a underwear model...

And yeah, so Yancy had told him that Raleigh wasn’t gay, sure, whatever, but Chuck hadn’t believed it until tonight. When Raleigh won and Mako gave him a big hug and he kissed her. Full on the mouth. _With tongue_.

Arsehole.

Chuck needed this - he really fucking needed this.

"We are going to grab a late dinner," Mako says, fingers wrapped through Raleigh’s where they’re resting on her shoulder, and she’s got it back. Makes Chuck ache inside.  "Coffee and pancakes.  You are free to come."

Yeah, right.  With his bank account the way it is?  That nine grand they were given for expenses on fabric and other materials didn't go nearly as far as Chuck had hoped it would.  He hasn't been able to put in as many hours bartending lately either.  "Wouldn't want to spoil the glow.  You two probably want to go off and fuck somewhere," he says, sneering, too exhausted to care about the way her face falls, or how Raleigh's hardens.

"That's not necessary," Raleigh tells him.  

Mako just looks pissed.  "And after what you and Herc were doing all season long, what room do you have to criticize?"

"Fuck Herc, and fuck dinner," Chuck snaps back.  "C'mon Max."

At least his dog still likes him.

The judges had told him they liked what he put up, that it was his best work yet and they were proud of his growth, but Sasha had thought it was melancholy.  Stacker used the word _sad_.  Sasha said she liked that quality, but Stacker was completely opposed to it.   _Never have I seen anybody use such a brilliant color palatte in such a depressing way._  The Gages didn’t say much during the review, but they told him once the judges were done - Chuck wiping tears he desperately wished he wasn't shedding - that they thought the combination of toughness and vulnerability was really quite exquisite.

None of that had been anything he was trying to show, though.

He didn't want any of that out there.

He wanted to make something beautiful.  Pure.  But maybe he just wasn't that bloke; maybe he didn't have it in him to do that.  Unlike Raleigh, whose collection had seemed so remote and yet so relatable, or Mako, whose color story had just exploded under the runway lights.

Chuck's hand, gripping Max's leash, is trembling.

He hates this.  

Years, he's been living with this, and it only seems to be getting worse.

And the worst part about losing (in some ways, because a hundred thousand dollars is a _lot_ of money) is that it meant he was dismissed from the stage first, and didn't get to hang around for that part where everybody comes up onto the runway and celebrates and hugs the winner or whatever.  Or sure, he probably could have hung around for that and gone back out - it'll probably make him look like a sore loser or something - but why?  Embarrass himself?  Say hi to a bloke who made it quite clear he wants nothing to do with-

Oh.

Chuck's been so lost his thought he hardly noticed the trip outside the building, didn't even really register that he was opening the big glass doors, but there it is, right outside.  

There Herc is, sitting on a raised park planter in a suit and a pea coat that seem distinctly out of character, one of Romeo Blue's distinctly mechanical silk print scarves wound around his neck.

He looks like he's been waiting.

This is really not the time.

"Chuck!" Herc says, a note of fear in his vote as Chuck tries to walk past, and the younger man doesn't have to look back to know the older is following him.  "Shit, kid, stop, please."

Chuck can't recall Herc ever using that word during filming, and honestly, he doesn't care at all, except Max tugs back on the leash; the little traitor's getting pets.

"He's a service dog.  You're not supposed to do that to him," Chuck grumbles, feeling intensely awkward. 

Herc straightens back up.  Even under the weak park lamps, the scarf pulls the blue from his eyes.  Chuck never noticed how blue his eyes were before.  "Was hoping we'd get a chance to see each other after this thing.”

"What, you wanna fuck or something?"

"No, fuck, that is not... Not what I was thinking."

"Then sod off.  It's late and I'm exhausted."

Herc gets in front of him.  "Go where, Chuck?  Your studio?  Is that really where you want to be right now, stuck in that little tiny box?”

Chuck wants to slap him.  (And of course, this is how everybody's going to see him now, after this shit, some poor little boy needing pity).  "Sod off," he repeats, and shoves Herc away.

“Chuck, we need to talk...”

“Fuck talking, and fuck you,” Chuck snaps, walking backwards just so he can flip Herc the bird as he’s moving away. 

 He doesn't get three paces away, however, before Herc yells after him, "I'm your old man!”

Chuck trips.

+++++

Herc's not entirely sure why he yelled at Chuck like that, but thank god it worked.  The sprog probably would have upped and disappeared on him, just like his mother did.  Stubbornness, that's what run in this family.

But Chuck had come back to him, took Herc up on his offer of coming back to Herc's apartment, and right now, the sullen little lump is sifting through the one photo album Herc's got.  

Angela had put it together for his last deployment. Herc’s got no idea why he’s held onto it for so long, but maybe it was for this moment. For when he finally got to meet his son.

"You two look happy," Chuck finally says.  He hasn't budged from the small IKEA table in Herc's small apartment since Herc put the album down in front of him.  “So what happened?"

"Dunno.  I had a rough job and the seppos had a war on and... your mum needed something I couldn't give her. Her words,” Herc says, and sets himself to dishing out the pasta he just made.  It's nothing fancy, just canned sauce and some browned sausage he had in the fridge, but who knows when Chuck last ate?  He looks thinner than he did during shooting.  "She never said what, though.  Maybe we were just too young."

"How young?"

"She was still at university when we, well.  I was twenty-three when she sent me the papers."

"She didn't tell you about me?"

"No."

Chuck flips the book shut as the food sets down next to him.  There's a reverence in the way he touches it.  Probably about his mum.  "You never tried to find me."

"I tried..."

"No," Chuck says flatly, matter-of-fact.  "You didn't.  The opera company could have told you who her next of kin was, you could have sent some kind of..."

"Chuck, I didn't even know if you were a boy or a girl.  Your mum didn't want us to have any kind of a relationship," Herc says, and sits down.  He's not that hungry, but he figures he'd better eat if he's going to get Chuck to do the same.  "Told myself I was respecting that."

"You were probably just happy the alimony stopped,” his boy grumbles.

"Now you're being a bitch for no reason," Herc snaps back.  "I'm sorry about your mum and I failing to tell you any of this, but..."

"When'd you figure it out?"

"The night you told me how she died.  It was a fairly specific event."

Chuck pokes at his food.  "I told the cameras a lot of that stuff too.  None of it made it in.  Reckon they wanted to just make me look like a bitch."

"You are, a bit."

His boy actually smiles a little at that, but it doesn't hold.  What little is left of the facade Chuck normally wears shatters.  Quietly, but clearly, shatters.  The kid doesn't exactly start bawling, but the tears caught up in his lashes tell Herc not to push it anymore.

"Eat your food.  We can talk about this more in the morning," Herc says, a little off balance.  He's got no experience being a father but he has dated more than one bloke here in LA who was the sensitive type, and he knows enough to know not to push this any more.

Nodding, Chuck wipes his face and digs in.

There's only one bed in Herc's apartment, and he's not about to make Chuck sleep on the crappy sofa he's got.  The sprog's half asleep by the time he finishes eat, so Herc has to all but carry him back into the bedroom, Max wuffing beside them all the while.  He sets Chuck down, kneeling to untie his shoes, and when he pushes back up to lay Chuck down, Chuck grabs his hand.

The expression is his eyes is _raw_.

“Chuck,” Herc starts to protest. “Chuck, you and me...”

“You didn’t raise me,” Chuck says quietly. “This is how I know you.”

Herc wants to tell him no. Wants to tell him that they can’t do this. It would be wrong, wouldn’t it? It is wrong.

He eases into bed anyway. 

Chuck melts into him, like he did during the competition, and Herc’s eyes sting; he’s missed this.

“If you ever call me Daddy, I’ll tan your hide,” he murmurs into Chuck’s hair. Kid uses too much product. It is adorable though.

Chuck just wriggles closer, eyes already closed. “Kinky,” he says with a sleepy little giggle.

They’ll have to talk about this at some point, Herc figures. It’s what you’re supposed to do, after all. 

But he kind of thinks he’ll be moving Chuck in tomorrow. No conversation needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lordy, was the last time I updated this really September? Holy crap, it's been a while. I'll try to have the last chapter out this week, promise!
> 
> Things are nuts at work, and finally coming to a head with my SJW boss... he really stepped in it this week in front of his bosses, so I'm hoping this'll be the beginning of the end for that whole mess. Meanwhile, I'm volunteering a lot on the weekends again. Too busy to write most weeks, which is both bad and good...


End file.
